Fainting Robin
by Erfquake
Summary: Eragon had failed; Galbatorix stabbed him - but that wasn't suppose to happen. Under some unusual circumstances, Eragon is sent back, before the Fall. Given a second chance, Eragon will fix everything, and save everyone - including Arya. Time will change.
1. Emily Dickinson

**Summary -**

**He failed. Galbatorix has succeeded, and killed Eragon, the beacon of hope against the Empire, the Last Free Rider. Eragon has failed - but you see, that wasn't supposed to happen. So the forces of Alagasia and the Eldunari combine their magic, and send Eragon back, before the Fall of the Riders. And now he has a second chance - for everything. He could prevent the war, prevent the Empire. He could save everyone - including Arya.**

**Bom chika wah wah.  
**

* * *

_If I can stop one Heart from breaking  
I shall not live in vain  
If I can ease one Life the Aching  
Or cool one Pain  
Or help one fainting Robin  
Unto his Nest again  
I shall not live in Vain. _

_Emily Dickinson_

_

* * *

_

He didn't remember _when_ the Earth had stopped moving. He just knew that it had.

Everything seemed to have frozen (he may just be delusional), as if time too, had held it's breath when the air from his lungs were stolen. And the thief - the sword of ebony, glistening with red, protruding from his chest - was _cold_. Few men have ever felt the ice of a blade with the flesh from their lungs. You'd think that his last thought would be something along the lines of depression, sadness, regret. Maybe before he left for the void, that he would chance upon the puddle of red dripping upon the edges of his soaked tunic. That at the end of his life, he would look back at the twenty years he had given up for the people of Alagasia, the people that he failed. It was odd that he didn't ponder about the mistakes that he made, the mistakes that had led him to this moment, this moment of failure.

It was here, staring at his reflection upon the red floor, that he saw the face of death.

He did not scream, grunt, or gasp. Time had frozen (in his mind), and yet, he could still hear the dripping of scarlet droplets, splashing upon the floor. He could still hear the cackle of Galbatorix behind him, a tint of regret lacing the deep baritone. He could still hear his heartbeat, a faint flutter, within his chest, fighting for a hopeless cause. But the most wretched sound of all – he could hear the dying screams of his dragon, his heart-sister, his Saphira. And that sound, the dying breath of his heart, his other side, was more painful than any stab through the chest.

He had always been told that a man's dying seconds were the longest hours of his life. They were wrong. His longest hours were buried beneath the sand rock, with Brom, the father he never knew. His longest hours was spent upon the red hill (not a hill, bodies, hundreds), next to Roran's incapacitated head. His longest hours were underneath the dungeons of Helgrind, next to the gnawed bones of Nasuada. His longest hours were wasted next to his loved one, with Arya, their hands entwined, the light within her eyes slowly leaving.

No.

These final seconds, the final moments of his failed legacy, was just that – seconds and moments. And as his knees gave away, as he closed his eyes within a pool of his own blood, he knew.

He, Eragon Shadeslayer, leader of the Varden, Rider of the last free Dragon of Alagasia, the beacon of hope against King Galbatorix, had failed.

Closing his eyes for the last time, he was unaware of the shimmering air that was being emitted by the Eldunari on the other side of the room. He did not catch the smoke, now a solid color of mass, gliding towards the gaping hole of the palace's ceiling. He had not noticed the now giant birds of color, flying within the vast expanse of gray that was the sky, whispering his name.

He did not notice the dragons.

And neither did Galbatorix.

He heard naught but the King's cry of contempt as he raised his sword in what was surly the final death blow of Alagasia's (fallen) hero. With his eyes shut, he managed but a small whisper within his now empty (and broken, so utterly broken) mind, his famous last word.

_Fuck._

_

* * *

_

**1448 Months Earlier.**

"I care not for the reasons. Morzan had no right to suddenly leave without me." The young man stated, biting into a red apple, making a delightful crunch.

Blowing back slightly from the wind, the boy's chocolate hair blinded his vision. He lifted a tan arm, swept his hair back, and continued to lean back upon his seat, tilting the chair as he did so. He had an apple in his hand (bitten). He threw it up, fairly high for such a throw, and caught it again, unhesitating as he took another bite. He was strong and graceful for a human. But then again, he was a Rider.

"_There was an emergency meeting with the Dragon Council. He had to leave. He's representing the sector within the border of Du Weldenvarden. You know this." _

His brown eyes were darker than usual. Probably due to his annoyance at his brother (not in blood, mind you), whom had decided that a brief note would suffice as an explanation of his sudden departure. It wasn't though. I mean, really? Two sentences? And one of which was an apology. Sheesh. Morzan could of at last had the decency to say it to Broms's face._  
_

"That doesn't mean he couldn't have left a longer note or something. Besides, why was I not chosen for the job, Saphira? (he knew why)"

"_Because Brom, you are in higher command. He was sent to do the dirty work, while you get to sit on your ass, munching upon a -"_

Brom, his mouth open to take in his next bite, stopped.

"What is it?"

Her head was turned to the right, towards the sky. He looked towards her direction of sight and saw noth – wait! The flip (forbidden to curse) is that, falling from the sky? He stood up, his left hand twitching for his sword, the other gripping the apple. Saphira blew out a puff of smoke. It dropped like a stone, streaking through the sky, though there was no smoke, so it was no meteorite.

"_Sehvermögen" _

Brom muttered a spell to improve his eye sight, and as the magic took effect, he saw the falling object more clearly.

It was a man.

Brom dropped his apple.

"_We must do something!"_

Brom said nothing, for his actions spoke louder than words. He mounted his dragon (a beautiful beast), and patted her neck. Saphira, like a spring cord of sorts, bent down, and pushed. Within seconds, they were off the ground, going God knows how many leagues an hour, towards the man. They were fast for the average Riders.

"How do you think he got up there? Did he fall off his dragon?" Brom asked his partner.

"_He might be a hatchling Rider, or some cocky boy attempting a prank gone wrong …" _

Her words were meaningful, and it gauged the right reaction. Brom's face began to heat up as he recalled his naive mistake, in which he tried to fly on Saphira's tale. I mean, it seemed like a good idea at the time, a new way of riding your dragon. But there is no new way. Since Eragon, there has been only one way to ride your dragon, as it should be. A fool, Master Oromis had called him. He was right.

"Never again." Brom agreed, ending the subject.

"_Letta enrogrus ploindina coraian!" _

The spell, which was to reduce the man's momentum, took little to no energy, as the force required for the magic was taken from the speed of the man's fall. A helpful hint he learned from Morzan.

As Brom got closer, he was greeted by the most abnormal sight, for the man, if that's what he was, wore armor - armor, torn to scraps, of metal (painful, surly) painted by the blood of what was most probably belonging to the stranger. This man just came from battle, or at least, it looked like it. Brom commanded Saphira to be on alert for any enemies as he gently placed the man down upon the ground minutes (yes, for they were really high up) later.

Brom drew his sword, blue, to match his dragon's scales, as he jumped off of Saphira. With his mind, he contacted the presence of Oromis-elda.

"_What is it?" _Oromis asked.

"_Have I got a story for you."_

_

* * *

_

The ripping of his body parts, so viciously, by demons of the most awful sort, was supposed to be painful, right?

But what Eragon felt, was far from pain. It was as if, the weight of the world that was thrust upon him those many years ago, were gone. What was Alagasia to do? Psh. He couldn't care less. He was dead – what responsibility did he have to the land of the living? He failed, but then again, he was dead, so big whoop. And yet, why did he feel air? Yes, he felt air – he felt the wind rushing around him. He felt the sky. But surly, he was not (though he hoped) in heaven? Yet, the blast of the wind was undeniable.

His cerulean eyes (like Saphira's) opened.

And blue met blue.

He was looking up at the sky. Was he not dead? The feeling of blood streaming through his veins was unmistakable. The pain, or whatever agony he should have been, or had been, feeling, was lacking. The discord within his mind was no more (still no Saphira though). Then white. Wait, white? What could possibly be white within the blue …

_Clouds _

It was at that moment, that Eragon realized.

He was falling.

And again, the word in which what he thought was his final, was repeated.

Logic, reality, fantasy – it mattered not at the moment. He was falling. He had to do something. He turned, ever so slightly, allowing the momentum of the fall to do the rest of his work for him. His body, now angled towards the ground, felt weightless. He looked down.

Green.

Everywhere.

Coming up fast.

He couldn't use magic – he was too high up. He couldn't use it later either, for he knew his speed would be too great to stop. He was screwed, this he knew, so he did the only thing he knew how – he sped up. He controlled his movement, and aimed for a small dot, a dot of blue. Water.

"At least then if I were to die, my dramatic entrance would alert someone of my body." Eragon whispered to himself.

Then, something odd, even stranger then his apparent 'death', more unbelieving then his random falling within the sky, occurred. The lake, _moved_. It seemed to have glided _farther_ away.

"What the hellfire is going on?"

And then something else caught his eye – purple. Something purple was moving with it, the blue. Then, a yellow. In a matter of seconds, Eragon was convinced he had gone slightly psychotic, as he was watching three dots of different color seem to move around within his line of vision. As if they were -

"_Flying."_

* * *

Eragon opened his eyes. He had tried to decrease the speed of his fall with the little energy he had left, causing him to faint. And yet, here he was, alive and breathing, upon what felt like warm dirt. This would be the second time he escaped death, the second time he defied fate.

His train of thought was disrupted though, by a shuffling of feet and something else (familiar clangs) clawing at the dirt towards his right. His arm, which he couldn't feel (that worried him slightly), reached for his sword. It was stopped however, by the grip of a tan hand, similar to his own. Like a manacle, it wrapped around his wrist.

"Don't try anything funny now, lad."

The voice was familiar, but he couldn't quite recall whom's it was. Eragon looked up, straining his neck to it's limit, due to his awkward position, on the ground. The man's eyes, light brown, like caramel, was set into a hard gaze underneath a head of chocolate hair. A frown was set upon his face. A familiar face.

Shocked, caught off guard, whatever you want to call it - Eragon was speechless. But it couldn't be. This man was younger, much younger. Besides, he was dead.

No.

This couldn't be Brom.

* * *

Help was on the way shortly, but at the meantime, Brom was going to have to deal with the stranger's stab wound. It was a surprise that the man was alive at all, let alone conscious. He noticed his hand twitch towards his sword.

He reached out, and restrained the man's arm.

"Don't try anything funny now, lad."

Brom may be young, but the stranger was younger. His dirt matted hair, a light brown, was flat against his head from both the fall and his sweat. Though you could barely make out his face from the cake of blood and grime, one could still make out some Elvin features. Yet, the man was undeniably human. His eyes, a vivid blue, stared up at the Rider in utter shock. He looked no older than three and twenty. Brom was not much older than the boy, for when you live for an eternity, a hundred year difference was minuscule, let alone thirty.

"Who stabbed you, my dear fellow?"

He leaned closer to examine the wound. A clean puncture through his chest, inches from his heart, in the center of his left lung. A simple spell would suffice. Brom leaned in to clean the cut, but the man shrank away. Why? Does he not know that Riders are good, here to serve the people? Maybe he was one of those desert dwellers, with the odd water containing animals, called camels. But they were leagues away from the Hadarac, and his skin wasn't dark like the ones he had met before. And it still didn't explain his sudden predicament of falling out of the sky. Finally, the man spoke.

A stammer, not in doubt nor fear, but in pure disbelief, left his lips.

"Galbatorix."

One of his perfectly arched eyebrows raised. Brom was confused; so was Saphira. Who was it that this man was talking about? Was there a new enemy for the Riders to deal with (he was excited)? But surly it is not so, else he'd hear word of this new foe. But the man seemed so sure of himself, and Brom's line of work had required him to learn how to read the symptoms of dishonesty. Either this man was mentally ill, or a 'Galbatorix' stabbed him.

"_Saphira, do you sense anyone in the area?"_

"_No Two-Legs."_

"_And the name, does it not sound familiar?"_

"_I don't believe so."_

But surly, a skirmish of this magnitude did not occur in his presence, else Brom would have sensed it. And why was he in the air? So many questions. Questions he was about to demand from the stranger. A human will not fall out of the sky, and just walk away, no questions asked, on his land. And definitely not on his shift. What would they say, the other Riders, of such a folly? His reputation as a Rider was rocky enough after the whole 'tail-riding' thing.

Information, like his name and what not, will come later. Right now, this Galbatorix was a threat to this man, meaning, that he could be a threat to other civilians. So the first question he asked?

After what Eragon thought was a moment of contemplation, Brom asked a question he had yet to have heard before, and doubt he would ever here again (how wrong he was).

"Who's Galbatorix?"

* * *

It was after he saw the dragons (extinct) flying above him upon the sky, their presence dominating the air; it was after he saw Master Oromis step down from Glaedr's uninjured legs - it was after all of these logic defying events, did Eragon (finally)awakee from his stupor. He had to think. And it wasn't until after he was healed and bustled into what he thought was Ellesmera, did Eragon begin to think _rationally_. But still, it wasn't until he was escorted into the large amphitheater, the Hall of Elders, within Tiadari Hall, did Eragon put the puzzle pieces together.

And by the time eleven people, a mix of (very)important men from the farthest depths of Alagasia, had settled within their seats around him, Eragon had become the first to analyze and solve the conundrum that was his survival.

Living within the past, a hundred years before his birth, he now stood.

Joy.

_

* * *

_Utter boredom is a phrase that few ever experience. It's when you have _nothing_ to do. Seriously. Nothing. Breathing being it's only exception, nothing is another term one shouldn't use very lightly. But when you're a human guard within a large dark cave inside a monstrous tree, with several elves being able to distinguish your every move, you can't do _anything._ He was there to represent the warriors of the human race, and yet, everyone knew that his job wasn't really dangerous. Who would attack the Elven Minister? Really, who would attack an elf in general? Point being, he couldn't even sneeze due to the nobles around him.

Donel was of simple birth. He was born and raised in Feinster; that is, until _they _came. They were the Riders. Sure, you'd see them flying overhead from time to time, but that's from below. When you're right there, at eye level, with some of the greatest warriors in history? Well, someone was bound to get inspired. And that someone was_ him_. He had it in his mind, that he'd be some great hero, like Rider Vrael or something. But of course, the scarlet eggs that they had placed within the center of the village, had no interest in him. He was the son of the town healer – what good was he? Yet, the egg cracked for Hamlet. He was the youngest born of Lire, the town's tanner. What did Hamlet have that he didn't? That mattered naught at the moment though.

His job? Stare straight ahead, hands by your sides, and shut up. Really. Those were practically the exact words Elven Minister Ambrose had commanded. He cannot sneeze, yawn, nor stand on one foot. He had to have the posture of a noble, the posture of a Rider. Maybe that's the closest he'll ever get to being a hero - a Rider's posture.

Standing straight though, could be a real pain in the ass after thirty minutes – and the meeting hasn't even started yet! The eleven representatives of each race's government had yet to have assembled themselves, taking their Goddamn time.

Once they had, they all stared down. Donel chanced a turn of his head, but his neck, by force, was snapped back in position. Minister Ambrose's voice chastised him within his head. So, though it would give him a headache, he turned his eyes.

_"Blasted magic."_

He was told by Hamlet, that this room was referred to as 'The Horns'. Riders and such were sent here to be chastised. More serious infractions would require the Council of Riders (or something of the sort), all the way in the Mainland. The room got it's name by the table in the center, which curved at both ends, like a rainbow. Meeting the bull head on, they would say, it would give the impression of meeting the 'horns'. The accused would be in the center, surrounded by the Eleven on both his left and right side as well.

And who was receiving the other end of the Horns today? Never before had Donil seen a man like this one. He seemed more rugged than any elf he had witnessed in his thirty years. Even from a great distance, he could still make out the man's fine features. Now, he wasn't no queer, but even Donil had to admit that he was better looking than even most elves! What stood out the most though, were these pair of cold eyes.

"_Brown"_ Donil later realized.

He wasn't too focused on the eye color, but rather the immense stare or emotion within them.

The council began to speak (finally).

"Impermissible flying in a restricted air travel zone, you are to be charged by the fourth degree. You will receive a fine of two-hundred silver crowns if convicted by the eleven sitting above you today. Now call your Dragon."

The deep alto belonged to none other than the King of the Elves, Evander. Hamlet had told him of many stories about the powerful King and his wise rule upon the elves. The shock of being in the presence of a King (elven royalty) quickly passed though. His eyes moved down towards the man again, whom he just found out, was actually a Rider!

_"Lucky bastard!" _Donil thought to himself - he was jesting of course.

The air got quiet.

Silence.

All eyes on the man, a strange thing happened. For some reason, maybe the way he stood, or the way he held himself (that's it!), similar to that of the Kind standing before him, gave the stranger something. This something attracted the attention of everyone in the room. He stood tall. Like royal blood. And when he took a deep breathe, everyone else held theirs. And when he closed his yes, Donil made an effort not to blink. It was moments really, the time it took for him to open them. But in those brief seconds? Something magicical occured – guarding a bunch of magical creatures had trained Donil's mind to supernatural occurrences. But yet, this was different. The air, it seemed, held authority. Held power.

"I have no Dragon." was the man's simple reply.

Spoken with indifference, his tone sent a faint chill down Donil's spine. Indifference is not like anger, or sadness. It's the lack of emotion. Like darkness and it's lack of light. It was frightening to say the least.

There were murmurs throughout the table. Confusion. Disbelief. A few were kind of angry. His opinion? He thought this cocky teenager was a fool! But he always admired fools – they did things Donil only dreamed about, like defying the Elvin King. A cough ended the conversation. King Evander swept back his mane of silver hair, and raised two white eyebrows over his emerald green eyes.

"Explain."

The tension within the air was palpable, as green met blue.

"Dead."

Another wave of whispers. Donil's own thoughts were preoccupied with straining his ears in chancing upon spare words here and there from the conversations of the nobles. A hand was raised by the King.

"There is no word of any fatality of a Dragon. Explain."

Explain. Explain. Explain. You'd think that with a large mental compacity that an elf would use a variety of words. Jutting out his chin defiantly, the man stated a word that few ever said against the King of the Elves.

"No."

Again, the stillness of the air. There needs not a paragraph of explanation. It was still, nothing more.

A look of utter disbelief was sketched upon each and every stony face sitting at the table, all but one – King Evander. He looked … perplexed? Donil's vocabulary was limited, but yes, perplexed. But who wouldn't be? Not even Lord Vrael would do such a thing. But yet, the young man's back was straighter than Vrael's. His shoulders were broader, his air more pronounced. He seemed _stronger_.

"Enough with this foolishness! Off with his head!" shouted a voice.

It belonged to the man with hair like fire – Ambrose. Many knew of his short temper, but this once, they all agreed. How dare he defy the King?

"Who do you think you are, acting all high and mighty, hmm?"

The voiced, sounding amused, belonged to a stout little man. A dwarf, with a crown on his head no less. Kind Hrothgr? Maybe. Donil knew little of the dwarfs. He wore velvet though; he had to have royal blood. All eyes looked on expectantly at the man, expecting an answer from the dwarf's question.

A laugh resonated through the room; a deep-throat laugh, one of disbelief. It's the kind of chortle you hear when your brother has done something undeniably stupid, like dancing after having four tankards of rum. It seemed to echo. The man's head, thrown back in what Dolin thought was merriment, soon stopped shaking.

"Who am _I_?" he asked in an incredulous tone.

He was a storyteller this man must be, for he paused for a couple of seconds for dramatic effect. And the air was charged.

Suspense.

Even Minister Ambrose was engrossed with the man's random laughing, for he didn't notice Donil lean in ever so slightly, to get a better look at the sudden predicament below. The strangers smile soon faded. A smirk was left in it's wake.

A cocky smirk.

"Who am I?" he repeated again, but in a whisper of sorts, as if he himself didn't mean to say it out loud. In those words that seemed to have wheezed through his lips, from across the room, Donil felt pity. It was the same question demanded himself in front of his reflection, days after he killed his first man (a spy). Donil was a farm boy - he was no killer. And even now, he had no answer. And neither did the man in front, so his tone seemed - hallow and empty, like the bark of a dying tree. Then, he spoke.

"I go by many names. I am the one the dwarfs call Argetlam, the one the Varden call Silver-Hand. I am the beacon of hope against the mad King of the Empire. I am the man that hundreds have died for, that hundreds have died from. Fear me. Admire me. For who am I? I am Eragon Shadeslayer, Son of None, and what was once the last free Rider in Alagasia."

* * *

**I know what you're thinking - freakishly long. I know. Never again, will it be this long. I just wanted the whole "I am Eragon!" speech, to be the ending of the first chapter. Still long though.  
**

** But I needed to fit in the Prologue with the first chapter, else it would have been utterly misunderstood! And I know, the idea is really far-fetched and all, but I've seen some stories with Eragon and Elva bouncing around, let alone my skit. **

**And Arya is going to be thirty-something at the time of her father's 'supposed' death, unlike the book (which I didn't particularly enjoy), so that Eragon and her can go bump in the night later on. I hate the fact that they haven't gotten together yet. Don't get me wrong, the book was good, the characters even better, but obviously, you're here right now because you have problems with how the book turned out, thus, the fanfictions. So don't screw with me :) **

**Anyways, reviews would be nice. Don't have a beta, so any mistakes? Tell me.**

- D


	2. Robert Herrick

**And, due to the unfrickinbelievable reviews, I give you the second chapter. **

**Disclaimer - Do I need this for every chapter? No. So will I put it in every chapter? No. Is Eragon mines? ... No.**

* * *

_Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,  
Old Time is still a-flying:  
And this same flower that smiles to-day  
To-morrow will be dying_**.  
Robert Herrick **

It was difficult to say the least.

And Eragon couldn't blame them. It was then, that Eragon had realized, that these soft humans, these frail elves, these small dwarfs, knew _nothing_. Their idealistic concept of battle were the occasional massacring of wild Urgals. They knew not of fear. Who was he, a stranger to these men (weak, stupid men), who cocoon themselves within their forests of tranquility, their caves of wander, their towers of power – who was he, to warp their visions of reality? But of course he had to tell them. He had to tell them that it was he that would do so. It was he.

He was Eragon.

It was because of his namesake, like the First Eragon whom changed the very fabrics of history, did he find the determination to convince them of their upcoming doom. At first, it had seemed hopeless (utterly so). Though at first they laughed at him, mocked him, even pitied his 'unstable mind'(that one pissed him off), the comical disbelief had slowly faded to annoyed anger. Had King Evandar kept the crowd at bay, Eragon was sure that there would have been a riot at hand. Soon, questions of his reliability and his state of mind were called upon. Soon, again, the spotlight was on him. But he excelled at succeeding under pressure. And so, with their eyes boring into his back, Eragon had turned to think.

He had soon demanded that a large mirror, about eighteen stones wide, be brought in, or maybe a large paddle of water? But of course, the red-headed elf (he irked him) venomously refused, egging the others to follow. Only King Hrothgr and Evandar allowed the items to be brought, at their expense no less. And so, Eragon used a simple trick. He conjured up a spell that most elven children had mastered at a young age.

"_Sinne Visa"_

He showed them.

He was going to project his memories onto the mirror. And Eragon knew that these Lords, whom have never seen _real_ war, _real_ death, were about to get a wake up call. Before Galbatorix, the only battle written in the history books were the ones between the elves and dragons. Technically speaking, there was little for the Riders to protect Alagasia from, yet another weak point, another reason for their failure. Honestly, the few enemies that the government had, were amateurs planning on overthrowing them, or at least interrupting the chain of power within politics. These men knew not the hardships of war. And Eragon could keep it that way. He could show them the lives he could save, the thousands that were _born _into these conditions. And for the first time, Eragon was going to show these Lords _real_ terror.

Then, magical threads began to ripple throughout the mirror's glass.

And images were born.

With a deep voice to enthrall his audience, it was as if Eragon was but a farm boy again, standing near the fire, retelling a grand story he had heard from Brom about the extinct Riders to Roran and Albriech.

He told them a story of war, of fire – of death. But this was no story. It was the future. And the images played out, as Eragon stood, narrating as he did so. The eleven who stood before him, whom mocked him not seconds before, were stunned.

Eragon had to keep his mind in check though, else they might see something irrelevant, something that was _his_. Few people ever display their memories. What Eragon was doing now, was not without regrets. Memories are something that are your own. Probably the only sure thing on this earth that is yours. Your memories. Nothing can change that, but the wearing of time itself. The fact that he was splaying it out so openly? Few but Saphira and Arya knew that Eragon wasn't perfect (psh). He was selfish. He wanted these things to himself, these memories of death, of blood. He wanted to remember the mountain of bodies (so much blood) in which Roran's deceased body stood. He wanted to recall the smell of the dungeon in which he found Nasuada's gnawed bones (from what, he knew not). And, though he didn't want to remember, he felt no obligation to share his heartbreak, to share the taste of the salt on his lips as Arya had laid dying.

Why?

It had made him stronger. He was no weak farm boy any longer. Neither was he a weak Rider. No. Looking at the reflection from the mirror earlier (before the spell), Eragon saw someone. But this someone didn't look like Eragon. The man he saw was strong – his back was straight, the posture of a noble, and his muscular arms were straight, disciplined. He was never disciplined. He was no noble. But reflections do not lie. What freaked him out the most though? His eyes. A bright blue, a blue he wasn't born with. His eyes were born after the change from the Blood Oath Celebration. But the fact that they were blue didn't freak him out. It was more or less the lack of emotion. He looked like Arya. And now, after her death, after his death, after the war, he understood. He understood her. His train of thought was interrupted though, as were his words, for a voice was heard.

"Eragon?"

Like wind chimes, tinkling bells, - he couldn't describe the clear beauty of the voice. A familiar voice. Arya's voice. And his heart, his broken, (what was supposed to be) unbeating heart, felt pain. Who knew, that he could feel _pain_ after all of this.

Shit.

It was this, it was his Arya - _that_ he will not share. And so, he rearranged his thoughts, and began narrating again, for nothing was amiss. Scenes of the Battle of Feinster resumed, the angel's voice forgotten (hopefully) from their minds. They did not see her face. It was a brief moment of weakness, in which a small voice slipped through, nothing more. And he would stop thinking about her, else it happens again.

He had to focus.

And so, race by race, he began to convince them. He displayed Hrothgr's death, the red beam of fire from Murtagh striking him in the chest. Eragon's cry could be heard in the background, as Hrothgr's mass fell off his horse, and a muffled 'oomph' was emitted. Then, the screams of the dwarfs in battle. The sound rumbled the table. More scenes. The warm tears damping his shirt as he laid before the fallen King. A grunt was heard from the King dwarf in the room, but nothing more.

Then it was the Riders. He began to recount the lessons with Oromis (for he was there), and Glaedr's injured leg. It was during the lesson of the Rimgar. Oromis himself could not complete it, he had told Eragon, due to his injuries. From his peripheral vision, he could see his former master gasp in shock (anger?), and a growl from a golden dragon shaking the foundations of the tree. A voice, Saphira's (this caused a gasp from everyone in the room), was heard, as she commented on Glaedr's leg. She spoke of their loneliness, being the last free dragons.

Finally, he went over the scene with the Queen, when the elves lined up with musical trumpets to announce her arrival, shouting her name in triumph. How she greeted him with his titles of 'Shadeslayer' and 'Argetlem'. The sadness, or maybe weariness, in her voice, evident. She was tired, he had told him. She was done. She planned on passing the throne to another house of stature (not Arya, she was dead). She planned on dying (Arya's death destroyed her).

And more plays of death, more cries of children, more tears of blood. Eragon stopped talking, and simply stood. His voice would have been drowned out anyways, by the screams and cries of families. He looked up, and stared at their unguarded eyes. They now leaned over the table, believing. They now looked over, shocked. They now looked on, with fear. But yet, the red-headed elf, Ambrose, again, began spouting false tales of conspiracies, saying that the images were made, weren't real. Denial.

And so, Eragon would have been screwed, had it not been for the messenger (thank God).

A guard by the name of Donil (?) was sent over to interrupt the bickering of the men, to deliver a message to Rider Oromis. A Council Meeting of sorts was being held, and required his presence. Something about a boy needing a new dragon, he had said.

It was at these words, that everyone froze.

And it has begun. The tale that he had told was no longer a story, no longer a distant future. No. It was happening here, it was happening _now_.

"Do you by any chance, know the name of this young Rider?" Oromis had asked stiffly, almost as if in (is it possible?) fear. His lips barely moved, but the sentence clearly audible. His pale fingers, thin and long, were white as he grasped on to the marble table ever so slightly. As was everyone else.

He could practically hear their mental cries. Could it be? The Apocalyptic calamity that this odd stranger foretold really be for real? Could it be happening this soon? The guard did not stammer, much to his appeasement. And after confirming that he indeed, was not here during the conversation, Donil answered.

"I do believe his name is Galbatorix sir."

It was at this, did all Hell broke loose.

* * *

Useless paragraphs of descriptive writing will be unnecessary, for, simply put it, they were shocked. Nothing needs to be said, other than the fact that the representatives of each race and city, were sent to deliver messages to their leaders. A meeting was to be held, with every influential man and women in Alagasia in a month's time; and if he could please, show his memories to these people as well?

The plan was simple really. As everyone gathered their wits together, Rider Oromis would send a message to Vrael, to scramble the locations of the Eldunari's and the eggs (nothing could be done with Galbatorix until a fair trial). And surly, by the time everyone was ready, by the time everyone belived him, Galbatorix and his thirteen followers will be no where to be found. But you see, thanks to Eragon's existence, they will be prepared. They will be ready. Eragonwill be ready.

While Oromis and the others depart for their messages, King Evandar would house Eragon under his roof, until his presence was necessary. You see, Evandar had called dibs. King Hrothgr and the Riders were a bit sour about the arrangement, for they wanted Eragon's knowledge for themselves. The knowledge of the future? Eragon was a powerful weapon. And of course, they asked for Eragon's opinion, even bribing him with 'magical wonders', and 'beautiful women', though the last part was soon retracted, for they recalled the beautiful voice from earlier, and Eragon's pained face, much to his dismay. But of course, Eragon refused, and agreed with the Elvin King. Unbeknownst to them, Eragon had always wanted to meet his father in law.

Not once did Arya cross his mind. He was focused.

* * *

And so, here he was, sitting within a lavished room, similar to his old tree house, inside Tiadari Hall, gathering his thoughts. He was here, resting in the before time, thinking in the past. The concept of the situation was unbelievable. But this was a land of magic, of secrets yet to have been discovered. Who knows what happened. What matters now though, is the death of Galbatorix. He need not to care about his loved ones. They are alive (kind of) and well, blind to the world, hidden from the war. And he was given the second chance to keep it that way. You see, Eragon was given a priceless gift – a second chance. And he was not going to waste it. No. Every aspect about his life that he didn't agree with, he could change. This time, Eragon was not going to be plunged to the real world like before. No. This time, he will _dive. _He didn't know how, what, or when he was sent here. But he knew why. And really, there was only one thing he _could_ do.

Go with the flow.

He slept.

Long gone were the memories of a good night's rest. And when he awoke at dawn, it seemed at an impeccable time, for as soon as he had slipped on his gray tunic and black leggings (gifts), a knock was heard from the door. A page he presumed, here to inform him of morning meal. And when he walked over to the door, it was a page, yes, but his message differed. It seemed that King Evandar requested his presence for tea, of course, when he was ready. And he was, seeing as Eragon took a shower the night before.

He didn't need any assistance to meet his destination, he had informed the young elf. Eragon had memorized the corridors of Tiadari Hall. Though it won't be until later that he will find out, but Eragon was lucky that the foundations of the tree were similar to that of Ellsemera, for you see, he was in the Elven capital, in which would have been the future home of Urubean. (I can't recall the name)

And for some odd reason, Eragon was nervous. Though it wasn't official, he and Arya had been lovers during the last weeks of war, so he felt the pressure of a man meeting his in-laws. Though Eragon was a dwarf adopted human-elf hybrid, he was still a man, and every man dreads this very moment. But had Eragon not just save the very existence of Alagasia? So surly, that was a good start, right? A deep breath he took, as he saw the doorway, and knocked.

All the while, he imagined Arya's soft whispers of reassurance tickling his right ear. Lies.

* * *

Waiting, a tall man, an elf, stood by the window, bathing in sunlight. His locks, silver, like the shine of a falling star, was fairly long; it hung around the length of his waist. His back, straight with the posture of a royal's child, seemed (oddly) relaxed. Not that there was any need to be tense. I mean, he was only going to have a morning meal, nothing more. Though with a strange man (human?) from the future, there was no need to be vexed. The news seemed naught to affect him. It's just, most Elvin Kings would at least be stressed out by the future calamity of his people. But not him.

Not Evandar.

Known as a kind and caring man by his people, even before his ruling as King, Evandar was a happy person. An optimistic one if you will. And why wouldn't he be? His whole life, from the day he was born, to the night before, he had been treated with the utmost care, the most dignifying respect – he was treated like a King. And he was. He was born with the blood of a leader, as was his grandfather, and his father, as now his daughter. The birds were singing. The forest creatures were dancing, unaware of the rain of blood awaiting in the horizon. But at the moment, there was no storm, the sky was blue, and the air was clean.

He had a secret though. You'd think, like everyone else, that he was perfect? No. It was wrong to feel this way, that he knew, but he couldn't help it. Like he said, he was pampered his whole life, so was it so wrong to _yearn_? Yes, _yearn_ for the violence and bloodshed, for the honor and glory he had only heard of in legends? Yes. It was wrong. But no one knew of this. No one would understand. And he won't reveal his dark side, the other face of his coin, which desired the blood and glory that went along with war. It was as if he was five hundred years old again, in the prime of his youth, adventurous as always. But there was no tale to be told in Alagasia. The land was too peaceful, not that he minded. But now, the inner warrior, the blood of his ancestors, his instincts, began to call. A call that, it seems, would soon be answered.

It was at this moment actually, that a timid call from the entry way, was heard.

He almost laughed.

Timid? The man whom seemed to announce his presence so strongly, so loudly, not a night before? Had he not just defied him, the King, in front of the court? Was he not Eragon Shadeslayer, Son of None, a Dragon Rider? And outside his door, a shy Rider stood, awaiting the call for his arrival. Since the meeting, Evandar had not slept, trying to unravel the quagmire that was his existence. But Solubum, the werecat, hinted that he stop, for 'there are some things that need no explanation'. Though Solubum too, was indeed curious, that he could tell. The boy was brave, he'll give him that. To have the courage to sound like a complete idiot, to have the will power to convince Alagasia of it's impending doom, must have taken a lot of guts. He admired him.

"Enter"

* * *

Two men, both with Elvin feature, sat around a glass table, accessorized by an eclectic variety of breads and meats (the meats untouched); they both spoke in a calm tone, chatting about nothing and everything. Their conversation may have began as a short remark about the wonderful quality of berries, then swiftly changed into survival tactics in war. Then suddenly, a sentence about the slicing of a man would have brought up the topic of the slicing of bread. Both were one and the same, nothing and everything. Like old friends, they chatted, with a laugh here, a gasp there, and even an annoyed face or two (angry with affection of course). The two got along well. One would find it difficult to believe that they had only acquainted themselves not a night ago. Maybe it was the fact that they were both men, male bonding if you will. Or maybe, unbeknownst to them, it was a secret that both shared. A dark secret, that neither knew the other had.

The secret of their bonding, perhaps, may be due to their similarities. They were both like donuts. Delicious and mouth watering on the outside, but filled with a day's worth of fat and sodium in the inside. Yes, they were like the sweets that they chewed, and they chewed with longing, with dark thoughts. They talked of war. And as they both bit into a strawberry eclair, both imagined that it was not jelly, but blood; as they sliced the butter for some toast, it was not a dairy confectionery, but that of flesh – neither knew that their thoughts were the same as the other. But of course, all was concealed under a false laugh.

It was in this position, the two laughing and sipping tea, did the previous guard, Donil, find them in. And it was after their laughter ended, leaving nothing but powdered lips and cheeky smiles, did Donil announce the arrival of Princess Arya.

Ambrose's previous guard, whom was given other duties to abide himself by as the swifter elves sent out their message, entered the room. He and Eragon were enjoying a conversation of the oddest sorts, swiftly changing course as does the eastern wind. It seemed that he liked the boy, for he was witty, sharp-tongued, and sarcastic, all rolled up into one. A hard combination to come by, like his apparent features. He explained his adoption by Hrothgr, than his transformation by the Dragons. This boy, whom was no older than his daughter, if not ten years younger, managed a feat only Eragon the first had done – he had combined the races. And the proof of his endeavor was his very existence.

Anyway, after a short story he had shared about one of his page's drunken misadventures, the guard entered the room. And as the words left his lips, of his daughters arrival, the large doors were quickly opened. No trumpets, no music. This was a private room – few servants were allowed in the King's bedroom. She entered the room, dancing upon the floors with that all too familiar grace. Of course, her bright green eys (his eyes) framed by her hair of ebony (like her mother's), was outshone by the wide smile she constantly wore. And she laughed, all the while. She was beautiful, his little girl, the fruit of his loins.

"Father!"

* * *

Interrupted by the familiar guard, Donil, King Evandar had just succeeded in making Eragon laugh again, when her name was suddenly uttered. And before Eragon could say _fuck_, the doors were thrust open, a feeling of excitement thrumming throughout the air.

And there she stood.

In all her glory, she shone. Really. There was a glow about the Princess, like a shine of the moon on a dark night, as if her skin absorbed the sun's radiance, only to release it, like a celestial body. But it wasn't her skin, was it? Neither was it her graceful skip across the room, for each step she took, it became faster and faster, as was the thrumming of his heart. Don't faint. Don't faint. Suddenly, that corny line he always read about in those dreadful books he was assigned to read, "as if surly, the whole room could hear the beating of my heart" (it was in _everything_), returned to the forefront of his mind. How could they not notice it, with their elfin hearing no less? Did they not notice his eyes grow wide in shock from the smile that graced her lips? Did they not smell the sweat his body decided to treacherously emit due to those seductive emerald eyes, the eyes that held those secrets? But of course, they must have seen the blood that rose to his ears, just from seeing those lips, those lips that whispered, that called, for his own. He would have been able to control his bodily reactions, had he been focused, had he not been shocked from her _smile_. The smile he rarely saw. The smile that he worked so hard to witness before, here in full view, blessing those who could see. He could go on, really. He could come up with another hundred adjectives and metaphors from her simply walking across the room, towards _him_. No. Not him, towards Evandar.

"Father!"

And the joy from her face. He only saw it once, if he could recall. She made the exact same expression, when he told her he loved her, the only time he reminded her of his feelings. He had grown by then (both physically and mentally), and he was tired of saying it out loud. Maybe Arya thought it differently, but he believed that the three simple words, were nothing compared to his actual feelings. It was like comparing one tree to an entire forest. So only once did he say it. He had confessed one last time, just in case. And it was a good thing he had. She had made that exact same expression, her eyes alight, her face aglow, those lips, smiling, when he had won her heart. But when he had confessed, there was an underlying tone as well – lust. (Not that he had any problem with that) But this was father and daughter, flash and blood. Not lust, but respect, admiration.

And as they embraced in greeting, Eragon felt not envy, but a longing. Such deep longing, for her arms to wrap around him like that, as he would wrap his limbs around her. But it seems that Eragon wasn't the only one that felt his longing. Evandar had looked up, and saw his unguarded feelings. It was at that moment, that Eragon would've sworn he heard a click!, for the Kings eyes grew suddenly wide.

_Shit._

And Evandar smirked a knowing smirk, as if he was silently mocking him, all the while greeting Arya. It might have been his imagination of course (he hoped). As he inquired Arya about her trip, he had looked up with that knowing look (what did they know?). Eragon's own eyes, whom he unwillingly tore away from the Princess's tempting form (oh my.), grew with panic. But the King looked away, and spoke with his daughter, and did not look back at Eragon again, as if nothing was amiss. Eragon convinced himself that it was so. The King would not know about his feelings yet. I mean, she was stunning – surly he was used to the eyes of men lusting over his daughter, appreciating her figure? Though his small shred of hope was again, stomped on violently, for Evandar, whom he once thought was kind and gentle, became a traitor in Eragon's eyes; he motioned Arya towards Eragon himself, again, with that small smirk finding it's way towards his face. King Evandar suspected.

"Arya, have you acquainted yourself with Eragon yet?"

And green met blue.

* * *

**Oh. I lied. Whoops! I guess the chapters are going to be long after all, thanks to these peoples input -**

**Pie in the Face, LED429, Julian Blake, Marshall88, Portrait of a Scribe, oceanlover14, TylerTjt, and two anonymous reviewers.  
**

**Yes. Don't lie. You know you feel special, having your name up there and all. Someone explained the whole 'beta' thing to me (**Pie in the Face**)(thanksss!), but I asked a couple of people who were betas, and they told me that they'll get it back to me soon? And because I love posting up chapters at 4 am, I decided that screw it, they can beta some other chapter. Soooo, any mistakes? Gimme a call.  
**

**Anyways, thanks for reading and reviewing :)**

- D


	3. Unknown

**I am utterly awed by the feedback I have gotten from you guys; amazed even. And yes, I do have an explanation for the late chapter. Never again will it be this late, that I assure you. But before we do anything, please give thanks to my new Beta 3 !**

**Saskia the Head V.M.D  
**

**She, all by herself, turned my trash into something worth reading! Let me tell you, she did not disappoint. So, here is the long awaited (again, apologies) chapter.  
**

* * *

Life's battles don't always go  
to the stronger or faster man.  
But sooner or later, the man who wins  
Is the man who thinks he can.

- Unknown

He dreaded this moment, the long awaited meeting. I mean, why wouldn't he? He couldn't just get up and embrace her, like he would've done in the past, or future as it may be. _Do I know you_? She would ask in confusion. And what was he supposed to say? I am Eragon, your future lover! She wouldn't believe him, surely. It would be crazy to tell her the truth. So he wouldn't. But at the moment, being there, just inches away from her, he wanted to shout her name, to tell her of their past, or their future, he supposed. And with these emotions awakening within him, a voice whispered in his mind. Tell her, it said. She loves you back, you know that.

How can he describe it, this feeling? Love. Love is what it must be.

Poets often describe love as an emotion that one can't control, one that overwhelms logic and common sense. It is something that cannot be measured nor the contents be put into words. But this? It was like a release of some unknown tension of anticipation. Like a tidal wave sweeping him away. Meeting her eyes, his brown* against her green, thoughts of her rushed within his head, shouting _I love you! I need you!_

There were no more space for other thoughts, for her presence filled everything – every space, The chasm in his soul left by her death, every need, every desire. He wanted to run. He wanted to move. He wanted to speak, to kiss her lips. But his mind and tongue were disconnected, his arms and legs restrained by bonds as strong as steel. He could fight it, the feeling, but honestly? He'd rather give in. His legs felt weak, unsteady, as if unable to support his weight. Goosebumps prickled along his arms, his neck. His heart pounded for her, each beat whispering her name, for his lips couldn't – he was unable to, for the feeling inside burned, and it encompassed everything, stretching itself, pushing his organs away. It crushed his lungs, crushed his stomach. It jostled everything. And it was marvelous bliss. She was there, right in front of him, yet still miles away.

No, he couldn't tell her.

Surely, he was nothing to Arya, just another empty face in a sea full of people. What was he to the Princess of Ellesmera? In this time, in this world, he was not a Rider. He was not a Shadeslayer. He was nothing – not even a poor farm boy. Not even.

Not to mention the fact that she would be different. Everything that had happened, from now until when he had met her, surely that had changed her. She had even said herself, once, if you had known me before Gil'ead, you would not find me so aloof. And that had only been months. One hundred years would change a person, especially if some of it was… was what? Even now, he didn't know what her life had been like between now and then. Past, present and future. It was all so confusing, trying to think of two different Arya's, two different personalities.

_She would have loved you._

That was what the Queen had said, when both he and her were standing on a blood soaked battlefield, in the no-mans land between two rival armies. And he had glanced over at her, the elf's face set in an emotionless mask, her lips frowning. So unlike the Princess here, who glided into the room, the sun following her every movement. She had laughed. She was smiling. But to be honest? He didn't care, for he didn't know her. She was different, this Princess standing before him, but he knew, from this one glance, this one stare, that he _loved_ her. And that was the only thing that mattered, right? Besides, he had another issue to worry about.

Faolin was alive. Of course, the thought was accompanied by a feeling of jealousy, envy. It felt like something vile was coursing through his veins. He had every right to feel this way. I mean, it's not like he wanted Faolin _dead_, but you know. And why should he want his rival frolicking around courting his mate? Faolin took it all, her first kiss to her virginity. But only Saphira knew the _real_ reason as to why he had been jealous of a dead man, though he wasn't dead any longer, or now, in the past as it may be. Eragon had worked hard to win her heart, to make her smile. He could have given up if he really wanted to. What man in his right mind would suffer through years of heartbreak? Through years of utterly unbearable pain. But it was for her. All for her. And he had won, for she had loved him. But Faolin, he did nothing. Yet, she loved him.

_"What was Faolin like?" _

_The trees, a colorful array of oranges and reds, melded into one, a stream of color, as they rushed past, rustling the leaves as a mahogany brown horse raced past them. The two riders wore capes of deep velvet, with the insignia of the Varden sewn upon the upper left corner. On the ground, the horse's hooves crunched on the few frost bitten plants that had managed to grow upon the dirt trodden path. Dawn was breaking, illuminating the forest, casting an ethereal atmosphere. All was silent, save the pounding of hooves, and the rushing of the wind. _

_It was late autumn, but winter was upon them. And though the setting was peaceful, the sight unreal, Eragon paid little notice, for he did not feel it. He did not feel the cold air rush past his face, rustling his caramel-like hair. He did not smell the air, so clean, so pure, devoid of smoke and blood and gore. He did not hear the silence. What he felt? He felt warm blood rush up to his face in embarrassment. The question was blunt, uncalled for, born from the feelings of both curiosity and envy. What he heard was the beating of his own heart, reverberating within his ears. It pounded and pounded. Stupid, stupid, stupid, each beat hammered._

_She squeezed his hand. He could not see her face, for she was sitting in front of him, unable to turn around upon a moving horse. His arms were around her small waist. He was patient of course – one had to be patient when it came to loving an elf. But though the gap small, the silence still did nothing but to increase the tension._

"_I love you, Eragon."_

_And though for most, it would be insufficient, and for some, indefinite, for Eragon, it was enough. Those four words were enough. As long as he loved her, and she loved him, then Eragon was happy, right? So Eragon was satisfied. But there was little he could do to stop the seed of doubt that was planted, deep within the confines of his heart. Eragon left it there, for he was confident that the seed would not grow, _cannot_ grow. She loved him, he knew that. It would not sprout, for there was no more doubt, no more secrets, no more uncertainty – right? Yet, the weight of that small seed felt heavy. _

_Heavy, like the silence that followed._

He remembered that morning, when the seed was first noticed, when the doubt was first planted. But every time the seed would take root, Arya would smile, and the idea of her loving anyone else but him was ridiculous. Then again, she rarely smiled. But the few times she did smile? It was for him, and only him. Those grins were his. And Eragon wanted to see that, her smile. But not only see it, but keep it, an expression of happiness only for him, not _Faolin_. So it was at this, that he felt this urge deep within him. It was ruthless and brutal, angry and primitive. Fight for her. Beat him. The feeling was so animalistic. Determination? Anger? Jealousy? Eragon knew not, but it mattered little, for if there was one thing he _did_ know? It was the fact that he will do it. He will love her.

So many emotions, so many conflicts. All of this raced through Eragon's mind a matter of seconds, for the elfin mind was indeed elite. To any other stranger witnessing the exchange between Rider and Princess, they would notice little. Eragon and Arya were staring at each other, yes. The King stood a foot away from the Princess's left shoulder, his eyes rising slowly, a mischievous smirk soon hidden by an impassive face. Okay. The two finally regained their composure and had finished speaking the elfin greeting. But before another word could be uttered?

The doors burst open.

* * *

Brom was collecting information on the man he had saved from imminent death. 'Oracle Eragon', the people called him. He was the Rider that fell from the sky, who came from the future, to warn Alegesia of an impending doom. The elves scoffed at such an idea, denying the allegations. There is no such thing as time travel. But Denna's brother saw him. He was a guard for some elven noble, and Donil witnessed the entire exchange! The dwarfs just grumbled, for they thought little of it. Who cares about some handsome man from the future? Not them. He was like a shiny new toy to play around with, his story a blob of fresh clay, the people molding it into any shape they pleased. He was both a hero and yet an apocalyptic event. Though the information was top secret, word had gotten around about the fall of the riders.

Of course, Brom and Saphira were caught off guard. To think, that they had saved a man of such importance? But surely, he's not from the future! Besides, the Riders weren't corrupt. They represented all that was safe and good in Alegesia – they would not easily fall to some 'Galbatorix'. It was he, Eragon told him. It was Galbatorix. Lies. The whole situation was retarded. The fall must have messed up the lad worse than he had thought, but no matter. Brom did not care about petty rumors and over exaggerated retellings.

_Does this not worry you Two-Legs? _

Saphira had been lying down not too far away from where Brom had been sitting, soaking up all the information he heard flitting around within the market. The chair was not a stool of any kind, but an empty crate, strong enough to support the Rider's weight. The people were eclectic, varying from young to old, light to brown, human to dwarf. The adults whispered among themselves, pointing to products here and there to disguise the topic of conversation. But of course, when talking quietly among themselves, they did not 'notice' the few eavesdroppers listening in to their conversation. People are like that, he thought. They like feeling important, and having people listen in on their conversation achieved that purpose. But still, it was rather idiotic to go mumbling about it. Everyone knew, one way or another. Eragon's existence wasn't a secret or anything.

_Psh. Why should it? Such idiocy. _

Brom got up, patted the dust off of his clothes, and slipped out of the crowd – it was starting to get too sweaty in there. Eragon was like a fever, infecting every person that his existence came across. It seemed that people couldn't contain themselves; they just had to tell everyone they knew about the man from the sky. Did they not care about how crazy they sounded? He was the main topic of conversation, people whispering and muttering of his profound mission, strength, and amazing good looks

_What if the words Eragon spoke are true? _Saphira said with her thoughts,_ what-_

A very irked Rider, whom had found his way out of the bustling group of people to stand near his dragon, cut her off.

_It's not. Now stop worrying about_.

Saphira grunted in understanding, and continued snapping at the small birds that ventured towards her mouth. She had been teasing this one owl for a while now. Saphira could have killed the poor thing, but its wit amused her, for it managed to elude her snapping jaws and burning flames, unlike his brethren. So she spat some fire here and there, at worst, singeing the bird's wings. Brom had made his way by his partner's side, and plopped down upon the ground, causing a plume of dust. He watched the bird, yet again; get close to Saphira, only to dive under her chin as the dragon spout out another rod of flames. The bird crowed, it's right wing darkened and charred from Saphira's jaws. Brom examined the bird's injury from his position on the dusty earth, determining that no, he did not need to heal it, for yes, time would heal the wing on it's own. But it was at this, that Brom noticed something.

The bird held a message.

_Wait Saphira! Stop! The bird, it holds a note. Maybe It's from Morzan?_

_Oops._

His dragon just smiled sheepishly as she allowed the owl to safely land upon her snout. It cawed and crowed in anticipation as Brom went over to remove the scroll from it's leg. With the parchment removed from its leg, the bird immediately flew away. You scared it off, he said. Saphira just grunted. Brom read the message.

Then he read it again.

And again.

_What is it?_

Brom said nothing; his eyes wide with panic, as he rushed to their saddlebags and strapped them back onto Saphira's saddle. Jumping into the saddle he yelled,

"Quickly! We have to get to Illirea!" and she flew off.

Saphira prodded his mind in concern, curious as to what the note contained. Again, what is it, she asked.

_We must report to the King – Galbatorix has been spotted._

_

* * *

_

_Faster Saphira!_

The sapphire blue dragon gave another strong thrust of her wings, pushing both her and her Rider over the towering pines, which were no longer trees, but a blur of green rushing below them. She flew fast and swift through mountainous clouds, leaving wisps of white behind. This caught the attention of a few travelers below, but Brom didn't care. They had to get to Illirea with all possible haste. The few birds unfortunate enough to be within a ten feet radius of the dragon's path were blown away from the impact of air that accompanied the blur of blue that streaked through the sky.

It only took a matter of minutes before they caught sight of the castle's pillars. They were vast, to say the least. The width of a pillar itself rivaled the size that of any village, the height as great as the Beor mountains themselves. The upper part of the tower, they say, is enchanted with a spell that affects only Riders and Royal Bloods. It assists them with breathing and such, seeing as there was little air up above, as they were that far up towards the sky. And when you get to the top? They say you can see _everything_, from the clouds to the lands beyond the depths of Alegesia themselves. You can see the end of the world. But Brom himself has never been to the top, nor anyone else he knew. The elves may be kind and hospitable to the Riders, yes, but even then, the upper regions of the towers were for the privileged alone.

Another couple of minutes, and Saphira swooped down, towards one of the many dragon keeps decorating the tower's circumference. She did not land, but flew through the entrance and beyond, avoiding any inhabitants that were unlucky enough to wander these halls at the moment. Brom knew already where the King's room was, so straight they went. And when the oaken doors came into view, Brom jumped off of his dragon. The note clenched in his sweaty fist felt more like a chunk of ice than parchment. He kept running and running, and didn't stop, but chose to stretch his arms out.

The doors burst open as Brom dashed into the room.

Before the King could question him upon his rude arrival and his unacceptable appearance, Brom spoke.

"Galbatorix! He has been spotted!"

He walked over, panting from the stress of rushing over, and placed the crumpled scroll into the waiting hands of the King. Evandar first noticed his appearance; cheeks red from the exertion, hair slightly damp from the sweat, covered in dust reeking of earth. He made a gesture towards a table, filled with goods, where a tall glass of water stood. He made his way over and drank it. Then, he turned to watch the King's reaction.

Like all elves, his face was a mask devoid of all emotion, but still, Brom could pick up an underlying sense of surprise, if not something akin to horror or disgust. The green eyes moved back and forth in a rapid succession, skimming the small elegant scrawl upon the note. It was at this time that Brom first took notice of two other people in the room. In his haste to alert the King, he had paid little to no attention to his surroundings.

There, to his right, stood the elfin Princess in all her glory. Though once, he fancied her, for what man wouldn't, he no longer had those intentions, and thought of her as a companion, an equal as you will. She had accompanied him; along with her two body guards Foulen and Gledwig, or something like that, during his visitations to Surda and the likes. She looked at him and nodded her head, then turned back towards her father, staring intently.

Next to her, at his left, stood Eragon. Since the day before when Brom first found him, he looked better off. A gray tunic and black leggings replace the bloodstained armor he had worn last time. His hair, which he would have bet was black earlier, turned out to be a light brown. His eyes, of course, were the same deep brown. Why was Brom so focused on his features? All day he had been hearing about him all of which either involved his falling from the sky, or his looks. His recollection of the Rider was fuzzy, for he did not make any effort to remember Eragon's face earlier. But now, he took note at how his light brown hair waved slightly at the ends, and how freakishly long his eyelashes were.

_Psh. He's not the special._

Saphira just snorted.

_Well, special or not, he seems very absorbed with our little Princess._

Confused at first, Brom turned his head to face Eragon (for before it was tilted at Evandar) and lo' and behold! Indeed, Eragon was very engaged with the back of Arya's head. You'd think that at a time like this that he would at least postpone his infatuation with her for just a moment? And from Eragon's loose manner and unconcoiusly spacy yes, Brom could tell, that the fellow was dumbstruck.

_Brom, pay attention!_

His head snapped back, moments before the King lifted his own chin, and spoke.

"Galbatorix has been spotted soaring above the cliffs of Icarus, along with twelve others. They think he is headed towards the outer edges of Du WeldenVarden – to hide, no doubt. "

He paused, to let the information sink in. Brom, having read the words already, looked on towards the faces of both Eragon and Arya, both of whom had dropped the traditional guise of emotionless tirades. Arya's face was a mixture of both horror and disbelief. One eyebrow was arched up above wide eyes, lips slightly parted. Eragon on the other hand seemed calm, flaccid almost.

_He looks prepared_, Saphira remarked. And indeed he did, as if he knew what to do, knew what course of action to take. His fists were clenched by his side, but other than that he showed no sign of stress or agitation. But his eyes told another story.

_I feel the blood of the hunt rushing from him, and eager determination,_ Saphira had murmured. Evandar made a point to look at Eragon.

"Eragon, how should we prepare?" the King said.

Arya looked slightly confused, as if she was thinking, why are we asking a useless human about such matters? But only Brom caught the fleeting expression, as her face turned serious, and she too, looked on at Eragon, apprehensive of her father's choices.

"In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable. I recommend that we hold a meeting of sorts, and decide things out together, Alegesia as a whole. This does not only involve the elves, but the dwarfs, humans, and Riders alike."

Both Brom and Saphira were surprised by the words of wisdom that left his mouth. Arya too, so it seemed. _We have misjudged him_, Saphira said. Evandar just nodded his head in agreement, and said something about confirming this with the council of Elders. His face going blank for a moment, the King mentally communicated. A second later, he turned, and smiled, ready to relay the information.

"The Council is making the arrangements as we speak. They have informed everyone of the situation. We must act, and meet up with them deep within the forest of Du WeldenVarden, in Ellesmera. I ask for Brom and Arya to make their presence known as well" he said , nodding his head at Arya, then at Brom. Will you accompany us, Eragon?"

All looked at him with anticipation, including Arya. He stared at all of them, Arya, Evandar, Brom. They knew he didn't have to go, he didn't have to help. He had no political ties, no oaths or promises. He had no responsibility to help them, which is why they needed him the most. Eragon tilted his head to the left, and smiled, folding his hands behind his head.

"When do we leave?"

Brom laughed.

* * *

Arrangements needed to be made as the King and Princess prepared for their departure, so King Evandar had assigned Brom to take over for Eragon, and help with his packing and what not. Arya and Evandar needed to contact all of their private guards, and some other political stuff that Brom could care less about.

Saphira had left to hunt, for they were to journey straight to Ellesmera at breakneck speed. She had to carry both himself and Eragon, for it would save them the trouble of another horse. He would have offered to have Evandar and Arya ride instead, but the Council of Elders insisted that they ride with the Royal Guard; Saphira couldn't carry the Royal Guard as well. So Eragon was sent on. Anyways, with a couple of hours to kill, seeing as how the guards seemed to take _forever _to assemble, Brom helped Eragon buy some food and pack his things.

They walked around aimlessly and talk about everything. Eragon was easy to talk to. His personality was nice, refreshing. No one rendered the pathos, chaos, and impossible variety of daily encounters like Eragon. On every subject, he was bruising painful and tenderly affectionate in equal measure, both mocking and complimenting the things all around him. This was a man who could lift another's spirit while reading out the ingredients of a loaf of bread. But yet, when Eragon spoke, his words were laced with an undertone of something dark, something hollow, as if something from his words were missing. He seemed both jovial and depressing at the same time.

After being attacked by a mob of human girls, Eragon being their target, they had decided to stay within the Palace grounds, for both convenience and safety. Eragon had heard the rumors concerning him, and when asked about it, he just waved his hand. Think nothing of it, he said. A man's reputation is a shield of sorts, protecting him from useless encounters and enemies. Brom took note of the words of wisdom that Eragon uttered every now and then. It was odd really, how easily the two got along. It was suspicious. He voiced his worries to Saphira. _Lighten up,_ she said. _I trust him, and so should you._ So he did. It was after they encountered yet _another_ female elf did Brom decide to ask Eragon on advice on girls. He just laughed, remarking that he shouldn't worry about that.

"You know me, in the future?"

Eragon looked down, seeming uncomfortable. Of course! How insensitive of him. Obviously, he wouldn't want to spout random things about people. It might ruin an event of sorts, or something like that, right? He told Eragon this, apologizing profusely.

"Uuh...yeah, sure. It's fine!"

Again, Eragon just waved off the matter and laughed, visibly relaxing. Brom was glad. He had few friends, other than Morzan, for few could put up with his behavior. He wasn't rude or anything, but blunt. But it wasn't _his_ fault. Everyone else was just so damn stupid. They continued their conversation about girls, for that is what male companions talk about when both are at ease.

_Sorry to intrude, but the blasted elves are ready. _Said Saphira, not sounding sorry at all.

Brom informed Eragon. He smiled, and said,

"Of course. We should head back." They began walking towards the direction of the upper gates, where their caravan surly awaited. Brom questioned Eragon again, about his life and such, and how him being in the future will affect his life. Will he be able to witness himself being born? Or meet his father? Eragon shooed the matters away, told him not to worry about that. He had it all figured out. At this, Eragon grasped Brom's shoulders and leaned close.

"Selena." he whispered, then walked ahead. Brom shook his head in confusion. What could that possibly mean?

* * *

**Alright, here we go. As you know, it's summer time. And yes, I do have a social life, but that's not an excuse because I do most of my writing at night anyway (insomnia). I was at my dad's apartment last month - he does not have internet access. Oh. My. Goodness. So, I'm all _I can work on this chapter now_**_. _**And I did, 'cause I had nothing to do. **

**I made seven different chapters. (They all sucked.)  
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**I have no idea what you guys want, you know, more action? romance? comedy? And so, I'm putting up a poll. It's on my profile. Anyways, please forgive me for not having this up sooner. And please, send your love and kisses to Saskia the Head V.M.D. :) Always, please review. You all are the reason why I try, you know? I am still blown away by the amount of reviews - I love you.  
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- D


	4. David Sedaris

**Romance was the winner for this chapter, though I'm afraid I kind of failed many people's expectations on the matter - oh well. Disclaimer is unnecessary at this point I would think :)  
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"I'm the most important person in the lives of almost everyone I know and a good number of the people I've never even met."

**David Sedaris**

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Finally, they had left Illirea for Ellesmera. He had thought traveling with the elves wouldn't be that big of a deal, them having their magically enhanced bodies and all. I mean, it shouldn't take them too long to get to Ellesmera, right? If they made good time, they should be able to get to the city in seven days, seeing as they were taking an indirect route to Du Weldenvarden, saving them the demanding trek across the Hadarac Dessert. At least, this is what Eragon was thinking when he had mounted Saphira earlier that afternoon. And when they were high above the clouds, towering over the caravan of sixteen elves below them, the sun had climbed towards the center of the sky, at its highest peak then. But now? It was slowly sinking over the other side of the horizon. You'd think that after a couple of hours of traveling, that they would have made good distance, leaving the city of Illyria far behind them.

Ha.

They were naught but three leagues away from the city's front gates. Yes, you had read that correctly. _Three_ leagues - how pathetic. Now why is that? What could have possibly hindered them so, as to only travel three leagues in six hours? Why, it was the caravan itself. They were flaccid, pampered, self-absorbed nitwits, who found the idea of skipping midafternoon tea utterly ridiculous. Yes. They stopped for _tea_, and dear God, let's not forget _brunch_ as well. So, every time someone reminded the others of a particular unnecessary activity, they had to stop, unpack, and rest. Then of course, pack everything up again – the tents, the chairs, and the tables.

Eragon had done little but watch the whole arrangement, refusing any offerings of tea and dessert. No, he did not want a parfait, and yes, he was sure. His presence was forgotten as Eragon sat silently in the corner, mocking them within his head in alphabetical order.

* * *

It was earlier that afternoon when Eragon first encountered this absurd happening.

Brom, Eragon, and Saphira were playing a game of wits and riddles, in which Brom was thoroughly failing. They had only been in the sky for an hour or two when a strange tendril skimmed the presence of their mind – it was King Evandar. Requesting them to stop, Saphira plunged back down towards the group.

"Why are we stopping?" Eragon inquired, his voice laced with both concern and curiosity. Brom just raise his eyebrows and shrugged.

Down below, the arrangement of sixteen elves, seven guards for both Arya and Evandar, had dismounted their horses; one of the elves led them away to graze. By this time, Brom and Eragon had jumped off of Saphira, both of whom were confused as to why one of the elves was setting up a wooden table. Yes, a table. And to top it all off? It came with a matching set of chairs. The equipment was quickly made with excess branches the elves found. Eragon and Brom stood, nonplussed, as the elves engaged in conversation as they pulled pastries and confections from obscure storage places and laid them out on the table. And slowly, one by one, they sat down at the table, laughing and eating their sweets; even Brom had joined them, wolfing down several cucumber slices covered in cream cheese. Eragon was disturbed.

They were having a tea party.

Were they not supposed to travel to Ellesmera for an _emergency_ meeting, involving the destruction of the Riders? Surely, the meeting was more important than a couple of cakes, right? Eragon stood in the background, his shocked face and confused posture going unnoticed for several minutes.

Arya too, was talking animatedly with her father, though about what, Eragon couldn't make out. He wasn't staring. He was just looking at her, again, no big deal. In her hand was some sort of purple lump powdered with sugar. She did not wear the tunics and leather leggings that Eragon was familiar with, but rather a white dress that suited her form, accentuating the dips and curves of her body, a strip of green cloth serving as a belt around her waist. It wasn't exactly traveling attire. He couldn't help but watch her though. It mattered little about what she was wearing – she still managed to captivate his attention.

He wasn't staring.

It was at this moment, that Arya had turned her head. He caught her eye, and she smiled, her hand motioning over the colorful array of sweets upon the table.

"Come and join us Eragon; it's time for midafternoon tea."

He did not return the smile. He wasn't going to join this mad activity. He simply nodded his head, declining her offer. She scrunched up her eyebrows, the smile leaving her face. She stood up and glided over to him. Surly, she was unaware of his heartbeat, that seemed to beat louder and louder with every step she took towards him. He did not blush though, for the shock of seeing her alive and well had worn off. But that didn't make him any less nervous of course, but he hoped that Arya bought his calm and serious façade.

"Do you feel ill Eragon?" she asked, her words curling at the end in the elven fashion, hinting at a slight accent which he himself found endearing.

Oh dear God, she was concerned. Over _him_ nonetheless. Her hand began making its way towards the top of his head, but she stiffened, then returned to its previous position by her side. Arya seemed shocked and slightly embarrassed at what almost happened, while Eragon was slightly disappointed of the lack of contact.

"I am well, though slightly confused about this concession that you and your guards have arranged."

Now it was her turn to be confused, the blush Eragon had not noticed leaving her fine features. Her expression clearly said, what could possibly be confusing about tea? Eragon answered her unspoken question.

"At the moment, you all are having tea in the middle of the forest on our way to a very important _emergency _meeting involving the fall of the riders due to the fact that we are on the brink of war! And thanks to your colorful confectionaries, Brom's only concern at the moment involves the decision as to whether or not he should eat the green one or the blue one."

At his words, both Arya and Eragon chanced a glance at Brom, who was in fact, turning his head back and forth between a small green cupcake, and a blue looking patty, a serious expression etched into his face. Arya released a small giggle at the Rider's antics, her eyes watching Brom's expression. Even Eragon let loose a grin, though he was looking at Arya's features rather than the dessert table.

"I see your point, but as you said, the times have grown darker. What else are we to do but make the most of our time?"

But before Eragon could reply, the Princess turned around, ending the conversation, and leaving him alone at the edge of the camp.

* * *

Technically speaking, that's how things went the next time they stopped for unconventional reasons – the elves set up their table and its matching chairs, as Eragon silently brooded at the edges of the encampment, all the while, making up indirect insults at the stupidity of the matter. Every once in a while, he and Arya would catch the other's eye; it was she who would always look away though.

The sky was orange when they stopped _again_.

"What could it possibly be now?" Eragon muttered, agitation seeping through his words. Even Brom had grown tired of it all, though it was more of Saphira's influence really; she started complaining that Brom was getting too heavy, which he believed for some odd reason. Eragon had rolled his eyes and smiled at the comment, though Brom immediately set down the buttered toast he had been chewing previously.

His patience was thinning, as again, the table with its matching chairs was set up. Ah, but a new addition was made, as instead of confectionaries being pulled out of the bags, they were instead, tents. There were four – each for both he, Arya, Evander and Brom. He assumed the guards didn't have a tent, but that was beside the point. Why were they setting up camp for the night, when there were still hours of the day left? I mean, he would understand if they were all humans, seeing as they couldn't tell left from right in the dark, but seriously? These elves were highly trained warriors – hell, elves didn't even sleep. What did they expect him to do? Lie awake on his cot the whole night?

He was done.

Jumping off of Saphira, Eragon landed on his feet amidst the dusty ground, plumes of brown smoke flying in his wake. This caught everyone's attention, and they watched him with suspicious eyes as he made his way to the array of chairs, by the King, whom was staring at a map that was splayed out upon the table. He ignored Arya's inquiring gaze.

He picked up the chairs, and began folding them up, one by one. At first, the elves were slightly confused at his actions, and did not stop him, but instead chose to watch, to see where he was going with this. And soon, one by one, they were gone, the tension within the camp site growing. He made his way to the table, when out of nowhere; a hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. The elf had red hair, the color of deep copper, and his expression was livid. Eragon shook off his grip (he was much stronger than the elf), and was about to pick up the table, when suddenly – the elf prepared himself to leap at him from behind. But before he could lay a finger on him, Eragon turned around and flicked his wrist; using magic, the elf was thrown back against the tree, though not too roughly. At this, the Royal guard surrounded both Arya and the King, their spears and arrows pointed at him. It would be easy, Eragon thought, to break all of these weapons. But he didn't of course –that would be rude.

"What is the meaning of this Eragon?" the King asked, pushing his way through the circle of elves surrounding him. He did not sound angry, nor confused, but rather curious. At the King's lax mannerisms, the elves set down their weapons.

"Right now, Galbatorix and his men are planning the fall of your civilization as well as the deaths of _millions_. I know this, for I have experienced his insanity first hand, have witnessed myself, the lives of thousands that have ended by his actions. The time of war is creeping upon us. And yet, here we are, wasting our time that could be well spent, on tea and brunch. Why?"

He did not raise his voice, but rather, his tone was dark and exasperated. While some of the elves were shocked at this realization, others were looking at the ground, slightly humiliated at his words no doubt. It was at this, that Eragon realized that it really wasn't their fault. He wasn't being quite fair. This lifestyle was all they knew. To them, it was natural to stop for lunch, to stop for tea. It's expected to have tables and chairs. It was always like this for them, always has been.

"This is _our_ definition of traveling. If you don't like it, then stop complaining and do something about it."

Evandar had made his way over to Eragon, and looked him in the eye. To Eragon this sounded like a challenge, but he was equal to it.

"I am not yet in the position to do anything, Majesty." Eragon said.

Evandar sighed, and smiled condusively.

"By my order, Eragon will now be in charge of this expedition. Listen to him, and follow his instructions."

The elves murmured their confirmations, and looked on towards Eragon. The spotlight was now on him. He stared at each and every one of them straight in the eye, lingering a second longer on a pair of emerald ones.

"Pack up the tents. We are leaving – there are still hours of the day to spend."

They did as they were told, packing the tents up and such. The guards returned their weapons where they belonged, and retrieved the horses. They were packing up the table when Eragon stopped them.

"No. No table – leave it here."

The elves were at a loss for words as all stopped what they were doing to stare at him in pure disbelief. What? No table? Yes, he replied. At this, they watched him mount the blue dragon with Rider Brom, staring after them as they flew off. Thinking he was out of earshot, they began to mutter about the reason as to why they were leaving behind a perfectly good table. I mean, why not, right? It's not like it was that heavy. But at some point, each and every elf replayed the words that Eragon had earlier said. Soon, all complaints ceased.

They left the table behind.

The sun had long been gone by the time Eragon allowed them to camp, much to the elves relief, though they were at a loss, for they had nothing to do once the tents were set up. Eragon had the chairs left behind as well, along with the excess confectionaries, much to their dismay, leaving them only nuts and fruit, along with some vegetables for soup as their supper.

Eragon was shocked at their ignorance.

"_I guess I'm going to have to teach them how to camp."_

And he did. He assigned a job for each elf, giving their twitching arms something to do. Firewood and logs were found, along with some heavy stones. The logs were positioned in a circle, and the stones were place within. The stones were set to surround the fire which was soon lit. In the corner, a log was being lifted with magic by an elf. He was about to shape the log into a chair of sorts with magic, but Eragon stopped him. Just sit on the log as it is, Eragon told them. They were astounded by the simply design of the camp; for some reason, the idea of _not_ using magic escaped their notice. Soon, potatoes and apples were set by the hot stones as a warm broth was made, and for the first time since Eragon's promotion, the elves had begun to enjoy themselves.

Saphira approved of his teachings, commenting on how annoying it was for the elves to use magic for even the simplest needs. She made sure to project her thoughts, and the tips of many pointed ears turned red.

Conversation flowed like the wine, as they drank to keep themselves warm amidst the chilly night. Even Eragon and Brom were engaged in the conversation. Soon, the topic of the upcoming festival was brought up. Eragon was familiar with it, recalling the time when Eragon and Orik first visited Ellesmera, where they were enchanted by the music of the elves. The elves nodded at his words, laughing. Brom on the other hand, had little to no idea as to what they were talking about.

His name was Odin, and he was one of the only elves within the group with brown hair. Soon, he began to explain what the festival was to Brom, with other elves interjecting every now and then.

"It's more of a ceremony than a festival, though the songs that we sing envelops us with a passion that causes us to forgo all common sense. We sing songs to improve the fertility of the forest. Our voices, woven together with magic, excite the senses of all things around us, including our own, to improve the life within Du Weldenvarden. Most elves find temporary mates within the whole commotion; but again, we are under the influence, so it has little meaning to us. Usually there are activities and events before and after our singing, so many consider it a festival."

Brom nodded his head in understanding, though from the look on his face, Eragon could tell that he still had many questions that needed answering. Eragon smiled at the thought. He looked up, and found Arya staring at him, causing him to shiver ever so slightly by the warm campfire. Something was handed to her, filled with wine. Everyone was taking turns drinking from the wineskin. Her eyes never left his as she took a gulp from the bottle. Her lips glistening red, she handed it to Eragon. He took it, proud of the fact that his hands weren't shaking. She looked away, starting a conversation with the elf beside her. He took a swig. And while he was drinking, he wondered if she was thinking the same thing.

_Indirect kiss._

He did not notice the blood that had rushed up to Arya's cheeks.

* * *

"Who are you taking Odin?"

The question caught the ears of the surrounding elves, and soon, a new commotion had come about. Eragon assumed from the topic of conversation, that it must be customary to attend the outing with another person. Brom on the other hand, seemed clueless on the matter, and continued to eat another baked apple sprinkled with cinnamon. Eragon voiced his assumption, which was confirmed by Kvothe, the elf with copper hair. King Evandar came out of his tent to join the others. He turned to his daughter after catching the jist of what everyone was talking about.

"Has someone asked you yet, Arya?"

At this, all noise ceased, save the elven maidens who sat beside Arya, giggling in anticipation. She looked around, smiling, and refused to answer the question, causing playful moans of frustration around the camp. And thus, the question was soon forgotten, though still, Eragon kept his eyes on her, until Brom shoved him playfully. He had a mischievous smirk on his lips.

"So who are _you_ taking Eragon?"

From his peripheral vision, Eragon could see Arya snap her head up, along with King Evandar. Again, everyone stopped talking for some odd reason, awaiting his answer. Eragon just smiled and scratched his head, saying that he really didn't know many girls in this time period, so at the moment, he really didn't have a date, much to everyone's surprise and the girls' delight.

"What about those girls who were practically drooling over you earlier?"

Some whistles and cheers were brought on at this remark, as Eragon just laughed the matter off. Many were asking Eragon some questions about the matter and Brom heartily replied for him. But Eragon took no notice. He didn't notice the funny look Saphira's face, or the little waves that the other maidens were giving him. Hell, his foot could have caught on fire, and he probably wouldn't have felt it. His eyes were on one person, and one person only, and she had left the fire's dying light moments ago.

Abruptly, Eragon stood up, and followed Arya into the dark.

* * *

Everything was blue.

The trees, the leaves, and his breath – it was all blue underneath the shadow of the leaves. The trees sheltered the forest floor from the moonbeams, rarely allowing strays of light. But he was a Rider, and his vision was enhanced. The wind blew, and the trees whispered. It was autumn; the dead leaves crunched beneath his leather clad feet, alerting Arya of his presence, surely. He couldn't hear her lithe footsteps on the ground, so he followed her scent, which was blown up against his face by the wind.

Mistaking her for a tree at first, it wasn't until her hair was blown back in a wave-like motion did he realize that the form was Arya. She stood there, probably awaiting his arrival. He moved forward, quietly, as if approaching a wild animal; he feared the worst - that she would run off, or be angry that he'd followed her.

A few feet away, he sat down upon a log – Eragon waited.

The cool air felt refreshing on his heated skin, which was now red from his neck up, in such an awkward situation. His palms were getting sweaty, so he opened his hands to remove the moisture. Elbows on his knees, he sighed, and stared at the ground.

Everything was blue.

The crunching of leaves were heard, as Arya made her way toward him, but still, he did not look up. He saw her feet, than her legs. She made her way beside him, and sat down, both of them settling into a comfortable silence. There were crickets chirping, though why they were out in such cold weather, Eragon knew naught.

"I just needed some air."

Eragon nodded and looked straight ahead, refusing to meet her eyes. He didn't want to see her face. His cheeks were red, and he was hoping that she wouldn't see, wouldn't notice. And if she did? Looking at her face would be too much. It was funny really, how he could stand up to an army of Urgals and look at the face of death, yet, he was too embarrassed to look at Arya in the eye. Here they were, alone, in the dark, in the middle of the forest. And he wanted to know why.

"Why?"

The word hung in the air.

The wind began to blow west, her hair dancing against her face, bathing Eragon in her scent. He took a deep breath. He had forgotten how addicting her scent was, how calming.

He had forgotten how much he missed her.

A hot swelling feeling started to ache within his head as his raging emotions were building up, building and _building_, and his head could only take so much. Eragon didn't want to appear weak, vulnerable, yet, he needed this swelling to stop, or else he might burst. And for a moment, he wasn't in a peaceful forest of blue, sitting here with Arya upon a log. The blue turned to red, and the leaves turned to blood. The chirping of the crickets were screams, dying screams, and the trees grew arms, and they grew legs. The trees weren't trees, but soldiers, and they were everywhere.

She spoke.

"I don't know."

And just her voice, that familiar soothing sound, snapped him out of it, snapped him back to reality. And no longer did he feel a need for tears, because Arya was not dead, Eragon was not on the battlefield. She was right here, beside him. The warmth on his left side proved that, as did the puffs of white coming in erratic breaths beside him. She was here, here, here.

And when she stood up, she waited by his side until he to, was ready to return. And side by side they were, so close, almost touching. A little rock in her path, Arya stumbled, and grabbed Eragon's elbow to stop herself from falling. She assured him that she was fine; she's just a bit dizzy.

She didn't remove her hand.

* * *

**(Flabbergast - to overcome with surprise and bewilderment; astound.) - I am utterly _flabbergasted_ by the amount of reviews. :O This chapter was shorter than usual; yeah, sorry. And some of you messaged me about not updating frequently (I am now scared of my inbox).  
**

**"And I don't care if you take a while with the chapters, because 1. school starts soon, and 2. I don't want you to feel as though there is a deadline, I'm not a publishing company." - Saskia V.M.D.**

**Ah, I really do love my beta :) That applies for both of us. Speaking of which, this ah-mazing chapter would be a dud without her, so don't hesitate to scream that she's AWSOME. On my profile, the poll will be deleted, and a new one will be made. So now, you guys could vote again for what you want on the _next_ chapter. Again, thanks for reading and reviewing :D And while your at it, say thanks to Saskia V.M.D - you know you love her :)**

**- **D**  
**


	5. Edgar Allan Poe

**And I'm back. Sorry for the long wait and such. School started. Joy. Do note the sarcasm. In advance, I do apologize for this shorter than usual chapter? But honest to goodness, I'm going to finish the next chapter tonight. And when my ah-mazing Beta (Saskia the VMD!) gets it done, it'll be up and ready. Woot! So anyways, to those frickin awesome reviewers? I thank you.**

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before."

Edgar Allan Poe

* * *

Everything seemed so familiar, yet, at the same time, completely different. It was as if he had left as a child, and returned as an adult to notice that the tree swing was gone, the apple tree cut down, the grass grown high, and an out house built over the mound where his best dog was buried. And for the life of him, he couldn't shake off this feeling of nostalgia. Eragon couldn't recall any memory involving the thick band of trees that surrounded him, or that large boulder up ahead, yet it was as if he had been here before.

He looked around at the others within the group upon. Behind him rode the twelve other guards, along with the King and Princess. They seemed unalarmed and uninterested, if anything bored and relaxed. Was it only him with this odd sense of foreboding? Yes, it seemed so. Maybe it's just his nerves getting to him, right?

He said nothing to the others. There was no need to distress them over some odd emotion that only he was experiencing. Within the caravan was a dozen of the elves finest warriors; surely, if there was trouble, that they would be the first to notice? Still.

The silence of the forest unsettled him.

* * *

Brom scrunched his brows.

He wasn't particularly fond of horses; they were large and smelly, and furry and sweaty. The animals drank all the water, and relieved themselves around all the good sleeping places, not to mention the fact that they needed meticulous care. Yes, in his opinion, horses were more trouble than they were worth. Now donkeys – donkeys are good independent pack animals. But horses? Please.

Ever since they left the elven cities behind, the Royal Guards had insisted that Saphira should travel under the cover of the night. Of course, Brom was okay with this – until they told him that no, he could not stay with her; he must travel with the rest of the group. Of course, both he and Saphira objected. But those blasted elves and their logic convinced Saphira otherwise. Two of the elves insisted on lending their animals to both he and Eragon, as they shared a horse with some of the other guards.

Anyways, so here he was, his legs going numb as he sat upon the horse. Saphira was too far away for any verbal communication, but he could still feel her presence in the back of his mind, nagging. Ever since Eragon had taken control of the expedition, they had made amazing time, traveling nearly a hundred leagues over a span of one short week, though that might also be more or less due to the horse's incredible speed, which was enhanced slightly by the elves magic.

Speaking of Eragon, Brom turned to look at his companion who followed along next to him. His face was set into a slight frown, his hair stuck against his scalp from what was probably sweat, though why he was sweating in such cold weather, he knew not. Was he sick? Maybe. Eragon looked slightly feverish, if not at the least uncomfortable.

"Are you alright Eragon?"

He did not reply. Did he hear him? He repeated his question. As if broken from a trance, he looked up, slightly surprised. His eyes widened in recognition when Eragon turned to face him, and smiled. He apologized, saying that he was deep in thought, and that yes, he was fine. Brom doubted it.

For the next hour or two, from his peripheral vision, he noticed Eragon's eyes constantly darting back and forth, his finger twitching towards his sword at the slightest sound. Brom didn't know why. Ever since they left Illirea, there had been no word of trouble. If anything, they were safer than most, seeing as Galbatorix and his men was last seen flying around the other side of Alegesia. But then again, Eragon didn't seem like one of those paranoid types, right? Surely, there was something that had given him a sign of trouble. And at this, for some reason, Brom finally noticed something; the familiar sound of the forest was absent.

This was not normal.

No wonder Eragon seemed upset. But what was surprising about the whole situation? The elves seemed to have noticed nothing. Surely, creatures that practically live in the underwood would notice such an abnormality? Brom chanced a glance at the elves. The King and Princess were whispering quietly to themselves, but other than that, the group seemed undaunted. Should he speak up? Maybe. Brom cursed. He really wished that Saphira were there, for he could use her advice on the matter. But his thought was broken, for about a yard or two ahead; there was rustling within the forest.

And it was not an animal.

So it was unsurprising really, when three arrows shot out of the shadows.

* * *

"Letta!"

Moments after the arrows were released, Eragon snapped them in half with his magic. From his peripheral vision, he notice the elves move their bodies in formation, surrounding the King and Princess. Now they seemed stressed out, for their swords were out, their free hands glowing with magic. He then turned, and whispered the ancient word for rise, and held up his right hand.

Out of the dense underbrush arose two caped beings. They carried strung bows, arrows, and swords. And from the corners of his mind, Eragon recalled a few of the twelve words of death, and just when he was about to utter one –

"Stop!"

He did not turn his head, though he still heard her push her way through her ring of guards despite their venomous protest. Arya shouted again, for him to stop. And no, he would not stop. They were trying to kill him, kill Brom, and kill her. He felt the all too familiar feeling of red. Yes, red. It was the color he felt rushing through his veins during battle, the color that tinted his vision when he was in war. And like red, the blood in his veins seemed to grow hot as he raised his hand a little bit higher and prepared himself to utter the fatal words-

She grabbed his hand.

And like a popped balloon, all the feelings receded, the red slowly draining from his system, his thoughts silently dissipating from his mind, for all he could focus on was her hand, touching his. And, oddly enough, he could not remember why he was so angry, or even what he was just about to do.

He was scared.

For her to have this much control over him was frightening. Nobody should ever have this much power over anyone, yet, here she was. Does she even know what she was doing to him, how much her touch affected him? Does Arya know how much she influences him, how much he loved her? His train of thought was interrupted though, as he dropped the two men upon the ground unkindly, his mind too frazzled to grasp magic. Arya let go of his hand. His fingers opened and closed, feeling uncomfortable without her hand within his. Eragon's whole body felt cold all of a sudden, for he had forgotten the feeling of her warmth after so long. It's like the feeling of sitting by a fire after playing outside in the snow for too long; you didn't realize how cold you really were until you compare yourself to the warmth now. It was this that he felt, as again, he opened and clenched his fist.

And suddenly, if it was possible, his blood felt colder as he watched Arya help the men off the ground, and whispered to them quietly. He couldn't understand the reason for this. Why was she helping the enemy? But really, what he wanted to know was why she wasn't helping him. Arya pulled down the hoods of the two men, revealing pointy ears and long fair hair.

"Faolin, Glenwing, thank goodness you two are safe."

His apprehension was correct.

* * *

He was okay with Glenwing.

After he nearly killed them (at this, the elves laughed), the King agreed that they have traveled enough for the day, unless Eragon has any objections. No, he didn't. So they unpacked and such, Glenwing and Faolin helping all the while. Glenwing was kind of quiet, and kept to himself mostly, though he didn't hesitate to help when the opportunity arose. And like a fairy tale he was, for using the ancient language, he communicated with the animals to assist with their own needs. Eragon had turned his back on him for no more than a minute, only to look back at Glenwing petting a deer with an antler full of firewood.

"Fire wood? Check." he exclaimed, laughing.

Yes, Glenwing was an optimistic person. He could see why Arya liked him.

But Faolin on the other hand was more or less an annoyance really.

They were complete opposites, Faolin and Eragon. While Eragon kept his thoughts to himself, Faolin seemed incapable of closing his mouth, verbalizing every mental idea. Faolin constantly had a smile on his face, which irked him greatly. It's not like he had a frown on all the time or anything like that, but Eragon found it hard to smile about the ticks on a deer, or the dirt on his foot. Eragon preferred dark cloths, such as his current attire, black leggings and a brown shirt. And of course, the latter wore some odd bright shade of green trousers and a white tunic. The elves of course, found Faolin social and amusing, someone who would make your day. And Eragon? Brom had told them that they were a little intimidated. Other than the two elves, Odin and Kvothe, he rarely communicated with the Royal guards. Yes, they were completely different, both he and Faolin, and even the little differences rubbed him the wrong way. But let's be honest here. The real reason why Eragon disliked Faolin?

He clung on to Arya.

Yes, that's right. If the Princess was taking care of the horses, who else but Faolin to 'save the day' by lessening her burden? And they laughed. A lot. Eragon had little to no idea as to what Faolin was saying, but every time he leaned in to whisper in her ear, Arya would giggle, and his vision would tint slightly.

It's safe to say that Eragon was very short-tempered by the time night fell. But of course, all of this was masked by a small grin and a seldom laugh.

Baked cinnamon apples and some sort of potato stew quelled the rumbling stomachs of the caravan. It was that time of the evening after supper, but before the night shifts. It was here, that they would loosen up, drink some ale, and tell stories and such; thus was the routine for the last seven days. Eragon took this as an opportunity to learn more about Faolin and Glenwing. And just when he was about to ask, someone beat him to it. Brom asked the reason as to why they were traveling this area of Du Weldenvarden. At this, both Glenwing and Faolin, but mostly Faolin, began their tale.

"As you know, King Evandar sent us to Vroengaurd as the representatives of the Elfin Government. We were the first to arrive, and were therefore assigned as assistants to one of the most important tasks Lord Vrael had to offer."

At this, Faolin paused for dramatic affect. Glenwing, who sat beside him, rolled his eyes nonchalantly at Faolin's foolishness. Brom on the other hand, seemed mesmerized, and was leaning forward ever so slightly.

"We are assigned to hide the last remaining Dragon Eggs."

No.

Eragon's eyes widened. At Faolin's words, everyone began to ask questions all at once, while Faolin and Glenwing basked in the glory.

This was not good.

Eragon felt slightly queasy, his stomach unsettled. For the first time in a while, he felt a bit panicked. You might think that this is a good thing, right, hiding all the Eggs from Galbatorix? But really? This was a disaster.

Saphira.

Saphira.

Saphira.

How will he find Saphira, the partner of his body and soul? The past couple weeks without her was torture, sure, but he was always reassured by the fact that soon they will meet again. But now? With the Eggs hidden? He was so screwed. He attempted to remain calm, returning to his usual emotionless façade. He leaned back slightly against the tree behind him, and crossed his arms, his eyes lilted slightly. To any other observer, Eragon would look calm, collected. They wouldn't notice the sweat decorating the edges of his scalp, nor could they tell that the real reason for his leaning on the tree was more or less for physical support.

"Where did you hide them?" Eragon asked, a false curiosity lacing his tone. He found it surprisingly difficult to shake off the fear in his voice, but he managed.

At this question, all the others ceased, as they awaited his answer. Glenwing and Faolin smiled, as if sharing a dirty little secret. It was Glenwing this time that continued the story.

"Of course, that's a secret Eragon. But what we can tell you is this – the bonds surrounding the Eggs are so strong, one must be stronger than Lord Vrael himself to break them."

Wonderful.

They then explained that after they were done, they went in search for the King and Princess to inform them of their success. Odin again asked about the whereabouts of the Eggs. No, they said. There were groans of protest from some of the others, but again, Faolin and Glenwing just nodded their heads, saying that they'll take this secret to their grave, or something of that sort.

Eragon on the other hand, was a bit depressed to say the least. Was he strong enough without Saphira to beat Galbatorix? Probably not, seeing as he didn't kill the King the first time, even with Saphira. And all of the people around him more or less relied on him to lead them to victory. They might not realize this fact yet, but at some point, they will. It was him who would have to lead. But could he? What is he, without his dragon?

Just Eragon.

And Just Eragon can't defeat a hoard of thirteen Dragon Riders, right? Eragon wondered if other thought about the things that he constantly pondered over. But no, probably not.

"Eragon, I'll take the first watch; you get some rest, you look like you need it" Brom said as he clapped him on the back.

Eragon looked down, and smiled. No. He's not alone. He's got Brom, right? Every person counts. Besides, it's not exactly impossibility that he'll never meet Saphira again. All he has to do is find their location, and steal one of the Eggs. Surely, stealing and Egg from Rider Vrael isn't nearly as hard as defeating Galbatorix, right? He almost laughed at how psychotic the idea sounded. But then again, a farm boy becoming a Dragon Rider sounds pretty crazy too, doesn't it?

With this resolve, Eragon arose and returned to his tent, optimistic reasoning whispering him to sleep.

* * *

He awoke to a rustling.

Someone was in his tent. Grabbing the knife he kept under his pillow, he grabbed the intruder. Legs over the stranger's and his arm on his chest, he placed the knife dangerously close to his neck.

"Ow. It's me, Arya."

Oh.

OH.

He quickly arose from his position. Wonderful impression, isn't it, practically sexually assaulting the girl of your dreams? He swiftly apologized, and hid the knife behind his back as he helped her up. She coughed. Are you okay? He asked.

"Um, tunic."

He looked down and realized that no, he was not wearing a tunic; he never did when he went to sleep. He didn't think of it as that big of a deal, but out of courtesy, put on a shirt anyway. She looked away as he did so for some odd reason, saying that she came over to awake him – it's their turn for keeping guard. At the word 'their', Eragon smiled.

"Very well." He replied, opening the tent flap for the both of them.

All the while, he debated as to whether or not this was a dream.

Each shift consists of a four-hour time frame in which two people have to keep an eye out for any enemies or abnormalities. After giving the surrounding league or so a pass, with all his senses and his mind, Eragon certified that no danger lurked in the area.

And so, it was during this time, that Eragon and Arya just talked. He told her about his childhood back at the farm, being sure to leave out any incriminating details (such as Brom) from his narration. All the while she listened and asked questions. He knew Arya didn't like talking about herself, and that suited him just fine, seeing as to how he already knew all of her stories and such. He knew everything, from her favorite food to her darkest secrets. He didn't tell her this of course; that would freak her out, and lead her to some rather unnecessary questions about their future relationship. Now that would be one awkward conversation.

They had settled into a comfortable silence, both of whom were satisfied with just listening to the nightly sounds of the forest, when Arya asked a nearly ironic question in his opinion.

"Eragon, take no offense when I ask you this…"

She paused and looked at him as he nodded his head for her to continue, a reassuring smile decorating his features.

"But why is it that you seem so emotionless?"

He scoffed at the idea.

Had this been in a different time or setting, he would have almost laughed at the question. Ha. He wished. He wanted to tell her that it was she who was emotionless, and that he was only like this because he was hiding – hiding from her. His heart had been beating erratically for the last three hours, which is definitely unhealthy, and this is from sitting near her, let alone any other physical contact. Him, emotionless? It was because of his emotions that he was even doing this whole thing. It's not like he wanted to go runoff and risk his life to kill Galbatorix. Hell, he could have just stayed home and worked on his cabbage patch. But watching those people die, those children starve? It made his heart ache.

There were so many times that he wished he didn't care, that he didn't love her. That he didn't love anyone, wasn't capable of it. Maybe then it wouldn't of hurt so bad when Roran died. Maybe then, it wouldn't have been so heartbreaking when Nasuada and Murtagh died. If he were emotionless, maybe then it wouldn't have hurt so badly.

But to be honest with himself, if given a choice, he will always choose to care. Even if it hurts. You know that saying, it's better to love then lost than never to have loved at all? Because Eragon cherished the time when it didn't hurt, and if pain was the price for happiness? He will gladly pay.

"I have many feelings Arya; I just don't show it."

She scrunched up her eyebrows in confusion, as if in deep thought. A moment later, she looked up at him again.

"Why?"

Because I love you. Because you will love me. Because life isn't fair.

"You might not like what you see."

And with that, he couldn't take it anymore, her presence teasing him, mocking him. So he stood, and left.

His shift was over.

* * *

**I hoped that there was enough action for some of you guys? I just want the story to start gaining some speed, you know? And thankfully, this is the last chapter about them traveling and such. Though I might add a short Brom POV that involves FAOLIN (See Saskia, I spelled it right this time :D). I was actually thinking about adding that part to this chapter, but I changed my mind. Anyways, sorry, and rest assured that the next chapter will be up sooner than you think :) Thanks for reading, reviewing, and hopefully, voting ;)**

**-D  
**


	6. Mark Twain

**To my dedicated reviewers who are still willing to read my story after my unforgivable hiatus - this chapter is for you.**

**This chapter, and pretty much this whole story, would be _crap_ without my unbelievably amazing Beta, Saskia the Head V.M.D. (Seriously, she's awesome.)**

* * *

If the desire to kill and the opportunity to kill came always together, who would escape hanging?

~Mark Twain

Eragon stretched out his legs as he sat upon a nearby log. The trek so far had been exhausting, but he was comforted with the knowledge that their destination was only a couple leagues away. Brom had accompanied him on horseback for most of the day, but before the sun had set, he had resumed flying on Saphira, for he complained that his backside hurt with the constant awkward movements of the horses. Eragon had laughed at him of course, for riding on a horse had become second nature to him after riding around Alegesia for such a long period of time.

Most days, he would converse with Arya to pass the time while they rode. This he enjoyed quite a bit – It was like he was falling in love with her all over again. This, however, had not been the case today. After his overly dramatic exit the night before, the two of them barely exchanged any words other than 'good morning'. So instead, to fill the silence, Eragon talked to the other elves about the current trends and times. But of course, it didn't compare with the conversations that he had with Arya. He had tried to make small talk, but her answers were short and curt, allowing no room to continue.

Even now, as they sat around the fire drinking wine, she would not meet his steady gaze. He had been looking at her for quite a bit now, not that the other elves noticed, but he knew she could feel his stare. Her refusal to acknowledge his presence only emphasized the fact that it was entirely his fault that they weren't talking.

He hated this feeling, the feeling of guilt. It had begun to grow as a seed in his stomach last night, after his awkward exit at the end of his shift with Arya. Looking back at his previous actions, he realized that he must have seemed rude, to say the least. It wasn't her fault she didn't know about their future, and it wasn't as if she knew how much of a tease she was being. It was the familiar torture from long ago, knowing she was just out of his reach. All he had to do was walk up to her, kiss her, and tell her he loved her. But then his common sense would step in, and tell him that this was just as foolish as confronting her with his feelings when he had been just a boy of fifteen. But still, every time he saw her, he couldn't help but think that maybe he should just run away with her and never bee heard from again. They could cross the seas, just as Angela had predicted, and never return. But he couldn't do this, that he knew for certain. He was bound by his duty to his country, his duty to his people, and his duty as a Rider. Though he wanted to throw all caution to the wind, he knew he couldn't.

"So this is what Arya felt like."

And now he understood. He too, was now familiar with the restrictions of duty, similar to the ones Arya had tried to explain to him before, so long ago. This was why she had turned down his feelings the first time. The gravity of the precarious situation he had put her in dawned on him, and he felt like a bigger idiot now than he had felt that day at the Blood Oath Celebration. Now he felt the invisible ropes tethering him to the ground. These were the bindings Arya must have felt since birth, due to her lineage. Subconsciously, he frowned. He thought he had Arya all figured out before. No secrets, that's what they had agreed to when they revealed their relationship to the public. She had told him everything, her fears, her hopes, her dreams, and vice versa. But she didn't mention the invisible gags that restricted her speech, or the nonexistent chains that prohibited certain actions. She didn't mention the burden of her duty. Fate, he decided, was a cruel beast. Here he was now, feeling closer to Arya than ever before, but unable to reach her.

At this thought, he turned his head slightly. A few feet away, sat Arya. Her face, bathed in the glow of the campfire, gave her attractive features a mysterious glow. He wished he could see more, but he couldn't do even that. Her face was tilted away from him, and he could only stare at the edge of her perfect face. She was talking with Odin, and from his peripheral vision, he saw her laugh. How was it that she could be so close, but still be so far out of reach? At that moment, he recalled last night's conversation. She had called him emotionless.

If only she knew.

But enough of this self-pity.

He had other things to worry about.

Eragon sighed. Standing up and stretching his long limbs, he retreated to a secluded part of the small clearing that they had camped in to set up his bedroll.

They were now very close to the city of Ellesmera. Why they didn't continue their trek into the night, Eragon knew not. King Evandar insisted that they rest, though Eragon could practically hear the buzzing of the city only leagues away. But he did not argue. He didn't want to stir things up, especially not now. He understood that the elves had been patient with him, allowing him to defy their King, and lead their expedition. And above all, they had trusted him. He didn't want to test their tolerance. Besides, he needed to gain their trust if he was going to lead them to victory. Yes, Eragon was going to free Alagasia before it was too late; that was a promise. Eragon had already failed everyone once, and he had seen the consequences of his mistakes. Not again would the people he loved take the punishment for his actions. He had lost them once. He had felt so alone. Alone.

Yes, that was the key to his grief, the most awful word in any tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym. He would leave no room for error, no room for mistakes. There would only be room for victory. The phrase 'die trying' would not apply. Galbatorix would die. He would make sure of it. Grabbing his sword, Eragon removed his cloak and again stretched his aching arms. His mind was muddled, and walking always did help with clearing his head, and so he began to stray away from the encampment. Besides, he found it hard to think with Arya being so close – she was like a magnet, his stray thoughts finding themselves returning to her whenever his guard was down.

"Where are you going, Eragon?"

Brom's voice startled him, and he turned slightly to reply. He must've returned from his evening flight with Saphira. Brom's mahogany hair was swept back, most likely from the wind, and his clothes were a bit out of place. Eragon couldn't help but wonder if he himself looked that ridiculous after flying with his Saphira.

"I'll be back soon, honestly. I just need to be alone for a bit." Eragon replied, smiling all the while. He scratched his head with his left hand to give off an aura of nonchalance. His father had taught him the art of acting well. He felt pained for a moment, remembering his father. But now was neither the time nor the place to dwell on such thoughts.

Brom seemed to have believed his ruse easily enough, for he too just smiled (they had the same smile, he thought to himself) and told him to be careful. He turned around, waved his hand, and continued his saunter down the dirt trodden path within the forest. When he was out of Brom's line of vision, his strained lips returned back into a frown, and Eragon looked down. Even the very act of false happiness was difficult, which is understandable really. I mean, there's not much for him to smile about. Arya wasn't within his reach at the moment, and Galbatorix was in hiding, not to mention the fact that Saphira's location was a complete mystery.

He had no control over any of the situations at the moment, and that frustrated him. He was used to being in control of his life. That's what the people loved about him, the fact that there was no master to pull on his strings – he had his own free will. But even now, free will wouldn't do anyone any good. He had to take the initiative, and find a solution to some of the problems he had to face. Things between him and Arya will work itself out in time, this he was sure. He just had to be patient. And so he will wait. Galbatorix had not been seen for the last couple of days, and if he was to be honest with himself, Eragon didn't really want him found. He wasn't prepared to confront Galbatorix yet. And he had to be prepared if he was going to kill the most powerful man in Alagasia. Going after Galbatorix is out. He needed Saphira before he even thought about confronting the dark King. So I guess if he wanted to prepare himself for Galbatorix, he needed to find Saphira. Eragon mentally sighed in relief – he now had his priorities straightened out. He needed to find Saphira.

Eragon stopped running only once he realized that he was doing so. He didn't know how far or how fast he had gone, and therefore he had little to no idea as to where he was. His feet seemed to have a mind of its own, as if leading him to some unknown destination. He seemed to be in the middle of some field, where the grass was sparse and the trees were few. There was no immediate threat that he could detect, and the surrounding shrubbery looked very familiar. Again, that nostalgic feeling returned, similar to the one from earlier. He couldn't quite place his finger on it, but he would've sworn he'd been here before. But how could that be? He knelt down, and pinched a bit of the moist soil, feeling the texture between his fingers. This soil was perfect for farming, he thought to himself, smiling. Yes, he may be a Dragon Rider, but he was still a farm boy at heart. Again, he looked around. He must've been running for hours and hours, because the surrounding area looked like the Spine. The moon was in-between phases; only half of it could be seen. The moonlit field looked serene under the shade of the tall pine trees around him. He remembered when he used to climb the pine trees behind the barn –

He stopped.

He was in Garrow's farm.

And as if a veil was lifted from his eyes, he began to _see_. He pictured the barn to his left, and the fields of turnips they'd plant in the spring to his right. He remembered the stable where the horses were kept, right where he was standing, and the farm itself, only a few yards away. And along with these images came memories and they all rushed at him at once. His memories overflowed, his mind too frazzled to comprehend each and every flashback of his lifetime. He felt the pressure of it all began to prick from his eyes. He didn't just see the trees and bare land, he saw horses, and potatoes, and his Uncle Garrow plowing the field. The rustle of the wind suddenly became the echoing of Roran's laughter as he fed the chickens. And his skin, as if remembering the warmth of hot summer days, began to grow warm, when just moments before, he had been shivering from the chilly air.

Again, he turned around, and looked. But what really caught his eye was the tree a few yards away from where he was standing – he knew that tree anywhere, with its gnarled up roots, and the hole that he knew was a hollow within the base of the tree. It was the tree he put Saphira in when she was little, when she was nothing more but a hatchling. It was the sight of that tree that finally broke him. Because the tree signified the before – before, when his biggest worry was finding food for Saphira. Before, when his world consisted of the twelve acres of land that was Carvahall. Before, when Brom was just a storyteller and the Riders of Alagasia were nothing more than mere fairy tales. Before, when stories of wars, heroes, and villains, were just that – stories.

Before.

At the sight of the tree, he smiled.

For the first time, in a very long while, Eragon Shadeslayer, last free Dragon Rider of Alagasia, knelt down, and wept.

* * *

His tears had long ago dried when he heard the first crunch of fallen leaves under the metal foot of a soldier. At first, he thought that it was his imagination, for there were no soldiers out here in the middle of the forest, right? Still, he had to make sure, so with the grace only an elf could possess, he ran towards the edge of the mountains, because that's where the sound had come from. He jumped up on a branch, and began to run upon the maple trees, using the branches as footholds. From a third person point of view, all they would see is a blur, and a chill of the wind, but nothing more. Not even the leaves shook from his weight, for he was an elf, and his grace surpassed that of any songbird. The crunching grew louder and more repetitive – there were more than one pair of boots making that sound. He only quickened his pace. Yes, he was sure now – that sound was unmistakable.

Soldiers.

He had to stop them.

He couldn't let them get to the camp. Not only would the elves be unprepared, but the people of Ellesmera were preparing for their arrival, so surely the city is unguarded with its usual magical defenses. Oh gods, it would be a massacre. The elves would no longer trust him. As a matter of fact, no one would trust him. Of course they'd blame it all on him.

And there was Arya.

Eragon ran faster.

He was no longer a blur, but rather a disturbance of the wind, due to his fast moving pace. He couldn't care less as to why they were in the middle of the Spine, but he would make sure that they stayed there. Eragon couldn't call for any help. Time was of the essence. The noise was almost deafening now, but it was not only the sound of crunching leaves that he heard, but also the crackle of a fire, and the laughter of deep throated men. He could assume that they stopped for the night, and had set up camp. He looked up, and saw the thin cloud of smoke penetrating the trees. He saw that the wind was moving the smoke towards the left (away from Ellesmera), flattening them out as it did so. No wonder the elves took no notice. By the time the smoke had flown over the trees, the gray puffs looked more like clouds rather than a column, and it was being blown at the opposite direction. Were they being followed? Had they been on Faolin's and Glenwing's trail the whole time? For the safety of the others, for the safety of his love, he had to kill. And though the thought of taking more innocent lives made his stomach churn, he knew it was necessary.

He stopped abruptly, and climbed the tree that he was currently standing on. Eragon stopped, and perched himself on the longest branch, giving him a perfect view of the encampment. The soldiers, about a hundred of them, wore tunics of red, with an emblem of a black dragon – a crude copy of Galbatorix's future representation. The men were grotesque in nature, more similar to Kull than men. They were at least six feet in height, with arms as beefy as their legs. With facial expressions to match their scars, Eragon could tell that these were no warriors, but seasoned veterans, whom gained their combat skills in experience rather than tutorial.

But it was not the soldiers themselves, but rather the strange formation they were in. There were no tents or anything of that sort. They all arranged themselves in a circle, facing outwards, kind of like a dart board. They were all keeping watch at the same time, with eyes of paranoia that roamed the surrounding forest for any dangers. Yes, this was very odd indeed. A couple of men carried torches, but other than that, there was no equipment laid out what so ever. A thick arm carrying a torch moved to the left, and the light refracted onto some sort of metal that was placed within the dead center of their little circle. Their clothing was tattered and… what was that?

Turning his head, Eragon did a double take, and took another look at the metal glint that caught his eye earlier.

Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was a treasure chest of sorts, with metal buckles supporting its wooden frame. Ah, so they were all protecting the chest. But what could be so valuable, that Galbatorix sent one hundred men to keep it guarded? Not gold, nor treasure. Surely it was something that was worth more than the lives of all of these men. And then it clicked.

A dragon egg.

If he had doubt the existence of fate before, he will not do so again, for surly, the chest contained an Egg. Eragon had this feeling in his gut, the same feeling he felt when he aimed his arrow at that injured deer those many months ago.

The devious mind of Eragon Shadeslayer began to form a plan.

The moon was still very high in the sky by the time Eragon had finished his gathering of the stones. He gathered exactly one hundred rocks the size of his fist from the surrounding area – one per soldier. He figured that seeing as they were already piled up ever so neatly, that he could just wipe them out, and retrieve Saphira. No harm done. But still, the idea of taking the lives of innocent men didn't sit right with him. They weren't aware of what they were doing. But it has to be done, right? After finding everything in order, he had but one more thing to do, and that was to sweep their minds. He had to make sure none of them were magicians, or that any traps were hidden in the area. He closed his eyes. Penetrating the minds of a hundred men at once took some real concentration. The sounds of the forest were met with deaf ears as his mind began to split into tiny tendrils, slowly worming their way into the mind of the soldiers.

Eragon really wished he hadn't.

There was a reason why these men were chosen for the safe keeping of a dragon egg – they were as heartless and cruel as Galbatorix himself. Each man had pasts riddled with sins as black and unmoral as darkness itself. Rapings, beatings, murders – one man even had the audacity to rape his own daughter. Eragon felt guilty just thinking about their past actions, but that guilt slowly formed to anger. Ah, and it began again, the color of red slowly tainting his vision. But he didn't fear it, no, but rather, he relished it. And he heard the roaring of his veins rush in his ears, and the beauty of the scenery was forgotten to him as he began to imagine the green fields tainted with the blood of men. No longer did Eragon feel any qualms about the deed he was about to partake in. Anger took up so much room, that there was nothing left but rationality and anger itself. There was no space left within his head for guilt or pity. Just anger, just red.

Those men will die tonight.

He blended within the shadows, hidden underneath the leaves of the surrounding forest. The stones were red due to the intense heat he had placed upon them using magic. His eyes, usually the color of hazel, shone blue under the moonlight, this he knew. His eyes always flashed blue whenever he exerted a large amount of magic, Saphira had told him so. The crickets stopped chirping. The wind had stopped blowing. The forest was silent. The usual soft sounds of the woods were silent, and the unobservant soldiers were none the wiser. Eragon wondered if the soldiers would notice the stillness of the leaves, or the silence of the air. Did the wind feel his anger, emitting from the rocks? Had the animals sensed the screams that would begin to ensue? Did the forest taste the blood that would soon soak its floors?

Slowly, the rocks were lifted. He raised his arms, controlling the movement of the rocks, which began to move around the trees, slowly surrounding the men. The floating missiles were nothing more than orbs of darkness, just a fleeting shadow to these sons of men. Even if any of the men could see the stones, the most that they could have made out would be a black blur, nothing more. And then the spheres stopped moving.

For a moment, all was still.

"Leta."

The men didn't even get a chance to scream.

The clearing, once a vibrant green even under the dim light of the moon, was now a luscious red, vibrant and bright within the night. No longer did the scent of flowers waft in the air, but rather a rusty scent of copper and salt, which now permeated throughout the surrounding forest. The wind resumed its usual chime as the leaves once again danced. Insects sang and owls hooted – as if the forest floors weren't strewn with the bodies of a hundred men.

As if everything was perfectly normal.

But it wasn't normal. One hundred living beings no longer exhaled their rank breath into the cold evening air. Eragon could feel the blankness in his mind, the sudden absence of life. Similar to that of Saphira's absence, except on a much more minimal scale. His muscles were sore, and he was tired, but not to the point of utter exhaustion. He could make it back to camp just fine, this he knew. He should have started working on the cleanup, burying the bodies and such, but he didn't feel like it at the very moment. No, Eragon was too busy walking towards the wooden chest that had been in the center of the hoard of men. The box was not elegant or fancy, but if anything, cheap and badly carved. A perfect cover up. What ordinary person would think that they would find anything valuable in here? But Eragon was no ordinary person. Using his strength, he lifted up the locked chest, tearing apart the metal as he did so.

Eragon looked down.

He smiled.

* * *

The moon had long ago finished its trek across the sky by the time he returned to the elves. Though the morning sun had yet to have risen, most of the elves were out and about – Eragon had heard them scurrying around earlier. Their caravan had rested in a little clearing, devoid of any trees or objects of the sort, which made it a perfect place for such travelers such as themselves to rest their aching feet. Surrounding the little clearing was a thick band of maple trees with thick limbs providing plenty of shade. This is where Eragon stood, behind the maple branches, meaning that though he could see the elves, the elves couldn't see him. Now why would he be hiding from his fellow travelers? Well, at the moment, he was debating with himself. Eragon was leaning against the nearest tree, pretending that it was a normal day, and that he was only up here this early so that he could go running and not because he'd just been on a killing spree.

In his arms, slept a newborn dragon, the color of sapphire.

She had hatched for him the moment he had touched the egg with his left hand, the one with the scar of the Rider's already imprinted. His hand lit up, just like the first time, but unlike before, he felt no pain, but rather an inner feeling of extreme warmth. And the vast, gaping hole within his subconscious, was soon filled with another presence, that of his partner of mind and heart, Saphira. Of course he was overjoyed at first; even now, he was still smiling, and his cheeks hurt like hellfire, but he just couldn't help it. He finally had Saphira back! They were both ecstatic after finding one another. And it seemed as though his dragon remembered him, for like an overenthusiastic toddler, the blue hatchling immediately began to fall into a repetition of noises, as if trying to communicate with Eragon. And though he couldn't understand her, he too told her of his travels, and nodded his head in agreement whenever he felt necessary. He knew she couldn't understand him either, but after the end of every sentence, she'd flap her wings, feigning understanding.

And what a strange sight they must have been, a giddy elf and a rambunctious dragon hatchling, both dancing with one another in the center of a field strewn with dead bodies. Sure, it wasn't the most convenient place to reunite with one another, but beggars can't be choosers. Seeing as they were having a communication problem, he was immediately relieved when he received a steady stream of thoughts and memories from the little dragon. Simply put it, there was no happier man in Alagasia that night. Though she was still young, within the small little body of the hatchling resided the mind of his old Saphira, who, from what he could tell, was very frustrated at her inability to speak. Her body had not quite caught up to her, but they both knew that it would only take a matter of hours for that little problem to be resolved.

But back to the present moment. Right then, Eragon stood, watching the elves go about their morning rituals. Again, it was still dim, and with the shadows of the trees cloaking him, none of the elves noticed Eragon. His stomach felt a bit queasy, and his grip around the sleeping Saphira tightened. What would the elves do, if he revealed to them Saphira's existence? Surely, they wouldn't take her away. And they couldn't, even if they wanted to – he'd fight all of them if they even laid a finger on his Saphira. But Eragon doubted that he'd have to resort to violence. Besides, Riders were practically worshipped by the elves, right? And surely, having another Rider on their side would be good news. If they asked for an explanation, he would tell them the truth – it's not like he had anything to hide. And if still, they didn't believe him, then they could go to the bloody field. He still had to clean up those bodies. In his excitement with Saphira, he had completely forgotten about the mess he had made. He took a mental note to take care of that later. He looked down at Saphira. Again, he smiled; she looked so peaceful. Staring at her sleep reminded Eragon of his own sleepless night, and his fatigue returned. But he set aside his exhaustion. It's not like he could stand there forever. He wished he could though; just stand here in the sidelines, watching everyone else resume their daily lives. The sun began to rise.

He sighed.

He stepped out into the light.

He was very much reminded as to how the elves reacted the first time they saw both he and Saphira before. When they noticed the sleeping hatchling, lying in his arms, they of course, were both stunned and shocked to say the least. They had all dropped their current tasks – Odin himself was literally frozen, his left foot tilted in the air, mid step. Kvothe had dropped the pot that he was holding, causing a loud crash to echo within the trees, which only emphasized the sudden silence. The elves winced at the sound, and from what he could tell, feared that they woke Saphira up. They were unaware as to how deep of a sleeper she actually was. Or maybe she was just really exhausted. Eragon couldn't tell. Their minds were blended together, and he couldn't tell whose exhaustion was whose. The elves began to surround him as Eragon walked to the center of the encampment. His eyes met theirs, and he did not see judgment or anger staring back at him, but rather joy, merriment. He started laughing. How could he think that they wouldn't accept both he and Saphira with open arms? At the sound of his laughter, the other elves took this as a sign that yes, they were allowed to speak. And the shower of praise and appreciation began. He knew that all of the comments were directed towards his dragon rather than Eragon himself, but he didn't mind. He was tired of the spotlight, having his every move and decision analyzed and judged by others.

In the midst of all this laughter, all this joy, he almost didn't notice the absence of the King, Brom, the Princess, and their Royal guards – Glenwing and Faolin.

But he did.

He couldn't ask them for their whereabouts though, for the elves gave him no room to speak, and even if he did voice his inquiries out loud, he doubted that they would be able to hear them, with or without elfin hearing. So Eragon, seeing the best course of action was to wait, sat down upon a log, and put on a brave face, placing a tired smile upon his lips, laughing all the while, trying to answer the comments and questions as fast as he could.

Mentally, he was screaming.

It took a bit longer than expected, but at some point, the elves stopped their bombardment of questions. Their excitement was not in any way reduced though, as they resume their tasks, talking to one another about the 'oh so wonderful' Riders and such. They looked back at both him and Saphira every ten seconds, yes, but at least Eragon now had room to breathe. Seeing this as a good time as any, Eragon began to ask about the missing individuals.

"Where have the King and his guards gone?" Eragon asked, keeping his voice light and uncaring, as if he really didn't mind, but asked more out of courtesy rather than curiosity – but that was a lie, an act.

Really, he was very concerned. Galbatorix's soldiers were within the vicinity; it wasn't very safe in the Spine at the moment. Arya and Brom were gone as well, the two people, besides Saphira, he cared the most about – how could he protect them if he didn't know where they were? It was an elf, with hair the color of sunflowers that answered.

"Brom and Glenwing heard something last night, and they went to investigate. I think Faolin and the King went with them."

Eragon was shocked. Were the elves not even concerned over their King's wellbeing? What if Brom and Glenwing found an enemy? What then? Not to mention the 'something' that the two heard last night. He had been sure that the deaths of the soldiers were quick and painless, let alone having them scream. His head again vibrated slightly from all of the questions that his mind was articulating, but his thoughts were slow and ruddy, effected by his lack of sleep. And even after all that, he still didn't know where Arya was. Just when he was about to ask, Odin answered his unspoken question for him.

"I think Princess Arya followed. You know how she hates being left out in such matters. I swear, one day, her curiosity will get that girl in trouble, mark my words."

At his words, his lidded eyes shot open, and his current exhaustion was once again forgotten. Adrenaline began to race within his system. His straightened up, and stiffened slightly. Everything became painstakingly clear, and his mind resumed its proper function. Arya followed them. Goodness, doesn't she know how dangerous that was? But looking back at the situation, Eragon decided that he probably took care of most of the danger last night, by killing the hundred soldiers. Assuming that what Faolin and Glenwing heard last night involved him and his chore from earlier, he decided that they were all probably at the field now, trying to figure out as to what happened.

Not that there was much to figure out. All of the soldiers had bloody stones within the spot where their heart once was. No, there wasn't a lot of blood, but that didn't mean the sight was any less horrific. But Eragon has seen worst, oh yes. After fighting a bloody war for several years, a man has learned to witness the many horrors of battle without flinching.

And very few things have moved his heart since Eragon had witnessed Arya's death. But she was here, alive and well now. And he would make sure that it stays that way. Rising from his seat and with Saphira still in his arms, he told the elves his intentions, and disappeared into the abysmal forest.

* * *

**Do forgive me for the lack of updates; some personal issues came up, and this prevented me from putting up this chapter. The next five chapters will be at least 5,000 words long, honest. I'm putting up another poll to decide what kind of chapter I should write, but I'm leaning more towards romance at the moment, seeing as the action between Eragon and Arya is long overdue. **

**(To my reviewers: OH my goodness, you don't even understand how much I love you all. ****I can't believe the amount of feedback I'm getting from this story.)**

**(To the C2's who've added my story: Thanks, it's an honor to join your Community. FIVE of you guys added 'Fainting Robin'. I really do appreciate it.)**

**Thanks for reading.**

**-D**


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